


The Bastard Queen

by MitsukaiMizuAmaya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MitsukaiMizuAmaya/pseuds/MitsukaiMizuAmaya
Summary: Synne Sand never knew who her father was. All she knew was that her mother always refused to spend or even touch the bag of coins her grandfather had forced on her. But then, after the War of the Dragon Queen and the fall of the White Walkers, her father found her. To bring her to King's Landing as the Bastard of House Lannister.





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I am no owner of anything in this story. Just a fanfic, y'all.

* * *

Prologue

**Forward by Queen Synne**

* * *

_It is upon the urging of Grand Maester Samwell Tarly that I commit this story to paper. For the histories of the Citadel and for future generations to peruse at their leisure. I trust the Grand Maester with my life, as does my King husband, but the reasons for committing my story to paper elude me. It is not a story of grand battles between Starks and Lannisters. This story is no Song of Ice and Fire, another wonderful collection of prose put together by Sam that details the battles, wars, and intrigue leading to the destruction of the Wall and the fight for the Westeros Throne. There is no sea battles between the Greyjoy factions here, no Starks rallying the North to take back Winterfell from the monstrous Boltons. There is no Night King with an army of wights flooding through the North, intent to destroy this land I call home._

_There is no Mad Queen in this story._

_There is no defeat of the Lannister army by the flames of a dragon and screams of the Dothraki hordes within these pages._

_There is no undead here, from the icy hordes or otherwise._

_But, as my husband, his family and friends - especially Sam - are always quick to remind me, that doesn't make this story any less important. When Westeros finally achieved something close to peace, as bittersweet as it was, with a iron-clad support of the Warden in the North and an alliance across the sea in Meereen, there was still something to be done. As the dust settled over the battlefields, the soldiers left to lick their wounds and the dead were counted and buried, what was left was a battered and broken people. A people who yearned to believe in something again, to rebuild their shattered homes and mourn their fallen dead._

_I do not see my story as something exceptional, especially in the face of such tales as the fallen Mother of Dragons, the noble children of Neddard Stark, the fall of the Lannisters and the rise of the Targaryens, the assassin Princess Arya (as an aside, don't call her that. The woman has a glare only rivaled by her sister!), and of the once-bastard of the North who became King. So many other stories, important stories to the history of Westeros, whereas mine?_

_I am simply a bastard who is the luckiest woman on the face of all the world._

_And this bastard was the one who healed a sad man's broken heart, who loves him with all of her own. Who soothed the beasts through no spells but my own. Who traveled far beyond the shattered Wall and into the deep expanses of smoke, chasing the ghosts of the world. And now, a woman of many years, with many children to call my own, I am the Queen in the South._

_A woman forever in love with my husband,_

_Synne Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Tamer of Beasts, of House Silverfist, Bastard of Lannister, and The Bastard Queen._

* * *

**Author's Note:** And in the next, we actually get to meet said future Queen.


	2. The Dornish Farmgirl

**Disclaimer:**  Obvs ain't my IP. It's a fanfic, for goodness sake.

* * *

Chapter One

**The Dornish Farmgirl**

_"To a father growing old, nothing is dearer than a daughter."_

_\- Euripides_

* * *

They don't shun bastards in Dorne. That's what my mother told me, when I asked her why she fled to there. She never told me who or what we ran from, who my father was, or what even our surnames were. I was born here, in the far South of Westeros, to a sad and scarred woman with listless eyes that always seemed watery. I looked nothing like a Dornish woman, which never escaped the notice of the other children in the village. They teased me for my golden colored hair, my pale skin that always burned in the harsh sun, my bright blue eyes. Mother always said, in the few sad times she mentioned him, that I had the coloring of my father and the body of herself. She said I reminded her of him - and she always said it fondly - that I had the same intelligent eyes. That I had his curls and wavy hair, but her skin. His shoulders, her height. I more wanted to think that I had her beauty and his kindness, for she always spoke of him as kind.

But she was gone now. As the Dragon Queen battled the Mad Lannister Queen and the tales of death came in from the North, she fell ill. It wasn't greyscale, it wasn't even age or general sickness. Mother was always a sad woman, and with me at the ripe age of two and twenty, she merely... faded. My whole life, she'd worked hard as a farm hand under the name Myrna. We never starved, living in a shack at the edges of the woods just off the farm owner's property. But the older I got, the more she just... faded. Until, with the whole country just clawing itself out of the endless spiral of death and war it found itself in, she left me. That was three year ago.

The farm owner and his family had been kind to me. Simple men and women for simple work, the Eddars let me stay on after my mother's death. They even helped me bury her, in a little plot next to our shack, where I could pay my respects every day before work. They had a daughter named Averill, who was my dearest friend, and a son, Braddeck. In the three years since Mother died, their parents Maenys and Edward would subtly nudge me in their son's direction. It wasn't a poor match, fitting for a poor bastard and a farmer's son, but the poor boy's affections lied far elsewhere.

As I left my home at the edge of the woods, I knelt before my mother's grave. Dusted off the fine covering of leaves that had fallen during the night, and smiled.

"Good morning, mother. More leaves are falling and changing colors," I rested my hand on the small, flat stone Averill and I found in the woods that marked where she lay. In one of the few times she talked of my Father, Mother said she he'd taught her to read some. And that teaching passed to me, then to the rest of the family that took us in. I'd used that bare-bones knowledge to carve her name as deep into the stone as old farming tools allowed. On the top side, it read 'Myrna" for the world to see. Yet, hidden away against the dirt and facing where she lay, I'd carved her true name in secret, "It's still warmer than some of the stories you told me of the Crownlands. But it is weird seeing the trees changing color so much. Uncle Edward even told me of a story he'd heard in town of snow in the Vale. Snow!" I laughed, hand now resting on the dewy grass that had grown in the the three years since I buried her, "White falling from the ceiling in big old clumps, coating the ground in white... I can't even imagine it, Mother." We only got sunshine and wind here in Dorne. And sand, a lot of sand. The southern seas of white. Or more of a beige, really.

"Synne!"

I twisted, sad smile growing true when I saw Averill racing towards the shack from the main house. She had the look of a Dornish woman, all dark hair, tanned skin, and voluptuous curves. Although she was younger than me by a full five years, I loved her more than anything else still alive. I stood and patted off my old patched up dress and opened my arms for the equally smiling girl, "Averill! Come to help me in the fields for once, hmm?"

"For once? I helped three days ago!" We laughed. I always liked to make fun of her for helping out in the farm less than her brother, but she also worked in a tavern in the town, so it was nothing more than good-natured fun, "No, no; Mother sent me to get your help in the barn again."

I sighed, shoulders sinking, "Did the pigs get out again?"

"No, better!" Her bell-like laughter was infectious, and the insistent tugging at my arm transferred some to me. So soon we were both running down the winding path too the house, passed it, and further still to the tall homely barn behind, "Fortune is foaling!"

"Really?!" I gathered up my skirts and willed my legs faster. Fortune was the Eddars family horse, an old thing that the family wasn't sure could even foal anymore when they'd scrounged the money to purchase her. But, with some effort and help from a couple friendly families nearby, the old mare actually became pregnant. It would be a huge boost to the family, and I was so excited for them.

But I knew why Maenys had wanted me specifically, and as we slowed outside the barn entrance and peered in, I couldn't keep the half-giddy smile off my face. I was very good with animals. Mother always said it was my gentle nature, but I'd never met one I couldn't calm down.

And poor Fortune needed some calming.

"Ah, there you are Synne! Come here, come here quickly!" Kind old Maenys gestured me over with a hand.

Fortune the horse was on her side, Edward around her rear and Maenys by the head. I took Maenys's place quickly, as the horse was squirming and her tail was thrashing. Her legs kicked once or twice, without strength and only in fear and pain. She was an old horse, after all.

"Hey, hey there old girl," I leaned over her head a bit, tilting my own to catch her beady black eyes. I ran a hand through her brown fur and black mane, humming some random tune as the horse huffed and heaved hot air into my thigh. She whinnied and jerked once, but when I ran a hand down her long neck, the horse slowly stopped her thrashing, "There you go, Fortune. Easy now. You've done this before, you know?" I could feel she had. Fortune had never fowled with the Eddars, but I could feel it. If I had to guess, the horse had had three little ones before this. I don't know how I know, I just did.

Just like how I knew she was scared and in pain. I leaned over more, resting my head on her neck just passed her head, shifting in the hay to get more comfortable, "I know, Fortune, I know. But you'll be so happy when you see your baby, hmm...?"

The horse blew out a huff of air. She was old, but she was strong. She would pull through this. And as I patted her more and ran my hands over her fur and through her mane, she settled even more into the hay of the barn. Then, with the horse now calm, it didn't take long for Edward to proclaim, "Well I'll be damned! I knew she was gettin' big, but by the gods!"

I lifted my head, but kept my hands running soothing circles over the horse's neck. The squelching was unpleasant, but with a bit more heaving, not one but  _two_  tiny stick-legged creatures slipped out of Fortune's rear. Twins. Born healthy and alive, already struggling to get their bearings in this bright new world.

"I don't believe it..." Maenys put her hands on her hips and sighed happily, "A blessing from the gods, this is! I knew she was havin' a bit of trouble, but lookit that girls! Barely even a tear to her old womb. I ain't never heard of a horse birthing twins without a lot more blood and usually the death of the mother."

"Mother!" Averill half-shrieked.

I rubbed one of Fortune's ears and the horse looked up at me. I leaned down again to half-whisper, "Good job, old girl. Knew you had it in you."

"I heard that," Maenys smacked a hand down on my shoulder a bit hard. She was a strong, large woman. Had to be, to run a little farm like this with barely any help, "I dunno how you do it, my girl, but you calmed her down and now we've got three horses to work the fields."

"I didn't really do much," I shrugged and, with a few more pats and rubs, extracted myself from Fortune - who whinnied again - "I just... feel what they feel, you know? Fortune just wanted to be held, and told she would be alright."

"Doesn't mean we can't he thankful. You know what? Take a late day. Not much to do on the farm til the wheat comes in, anyway."

My eyes glittered, "Really?"

"Aye, and I wouldn't say no if you wanted to take Braddeck on a hike, I wouldn't stop-"

"Thank you, Maenys!" I ran off before the headstrong farmer's wife foisted her unfortunate son on me. It wasn't that I didn't like Braddeck - he was like a brother to me - it's just... we both knew very well that I was the furthest thing he wanted in a wife. In fact, he didn't want a  _wife_ , per se.

So I took off, out of the barn and back to my little shack at the edges of the reddening forest. I laughed as I went, the wind in my long, long hair feeling just divine. I didn't get days off a lot, though this was only a half-day off really. Maenys would need my help in the afternoon, but I would make the best of it. Most of Dorne was vast deserts and rocky, dry mountains, but here and there greenery grew. Granted, even here it was mostly because of the artificial irrigation canals and the nearby river, and even then the 'forest' was more sparse woods and plains grasses, but still. It was home.

Perhaps I would gather some flowers for Mother's grave. Yes, I smiled to myself, I liked that idea a lot. So I stopped by the shack and gathered a few things; a small trowel Edward's blacksmith friend in town made for my tenth name day, some worn gloves I really should mend, a slice of jerky as a snack, and a threadbare rucksack. Mother's grave deserved more than cut flowers; I would cover the whole thing in her favorite, Dornish roses. It didn't take long to find the plant I had in mind; they were rare in this part of Dorne, but I'd found a couple growing last week deep in the sparse woods. Their 'stem' was more like a small tree trunk, all thick and woody, but from the top smaller stems shot and deep green leaves with beautiful pink-purple flowers burst from the top. I found a smaller one, with maybe a half dozen flowers, and went to work with the trowel. Like the trunk, the roots were thick and dug deep, so it look a while. That's when I spied a few other flowers nearby. Wild ones, with Dornish daisy's and wild echinacea and calendula. A few of those would look beautiful all around the Dornish rose, that I would place just behind mother's headstone.

It was just as I finished gathering the flowers that I heard twigs snapping. I didn't feel danger, but set down my trowel anyway and slowly twisted around. There, half hidden by a nearby dusty brush, was a fennec fox. We saw them from time to time outside the farm and in town, but never alone. It was a tiny, shivering little thing, with ribs sticking out and casting shadows on it's white-tan fur. I could feel how scared and hungry it was. How... sad. It was all alone in the world, probably the offspring of a hunter's catch.

"Your mother leave you too, hmm?" I turned fully. Just like with Fortune, I could feel what it felt. Mother called it 'empathy', but I knew it was more than that. Sometimes, it was almost like I could hear their wild thoughts, "Come here, hmm?"

I patted the dry grass and upturned dirt next to me. The little thing stared with it's huge gray eyes, but didn't move. It just shivered.

"Don't be scared, here," I slowly reached into my back for the chunk of jerky and smiled warmly. I tore off a large piece before taking a bit of the rest, then held the piece out for the fox, "I know you're hungry."

That was the part of me that my mother both loved and hated the most. I wanted to help, I always did... even when food was scarce like now, two years after the end of the war. But it was only a small bit of jerky, and Mother wasn't around anymore to tell me no.

The fennec fox took a shaky step forward, then another, and soon was close enough to lean in and sniff the piece. It looked up at me with it's large eyes, and I only smiled wider and set the piece down for it. Her, I reminded myself. Like usual, I could tell it was a her without checking. She leaped at the piece, tearing into it with wild abandon. I drew my knees up and rested my chin on them, "There you go, little one."

Soon, the piece was gone, so I tore it off another. I wasn't that hungry anyway. But I had been gone long, and I still needed to plant the flowers before Maenys sent for me. I stood and patted off my skirts, "Well, little one..." For a moment, I was at a loss. It still looked so... little, and hungry, and alone. It probably wouldn't survive as the long winter got colder, but on the other side, could I take care of it? The Eddars always paid my mother and I in food from the farm, and we'd make small coin through selling widdled figurines and trinkets in town, but it wasn't much. Then again, the fox was small and wouldn't need a lot...

"Oh, why not?" I motioned to the fox, "Come on, then, if you want."

She did this little jump, and I felt her happiness as it trotted along beside me. I guessed I would have to think of a name for the fox now. Averill would love her.

As I stepped over some brush at the treeline behind my shack, I saw a stranger peering through the side window on the opposite end from Mother's grave. He had an aged face and dark hair, flecked with gray and slicked back from his face. The man was alone, and clothed in expensive but worn armor with a sword at his hip. He looked closer to a knight than I'd ever seen, but nothing like the stories I'd heard. But what was he doing here?

I made to hide, but he'd heard me already. I froze as his hard eyes and stern face met mine. He spoke with a low, gruff voice, "This hut yours?"

"Y-yes..." Please don't be a raper or murderer. The fox whimpered and hid behind my calves, My eyes darted to the Eddars home. In my thin skirt and his heavy armor, I could probably outrun him...

"Don't look so damn scared, lass, I ain't here to hurt you," He didn't smile, but his grim face did smooth out a bit. I couldn't decide if that made his less threatening or not, "I'm lookin' for a woman named Tysha. Took an age and a half, but heard she was here."

I paled and stepped back. The fox yelped, and I felt a shot of panic that wasn't mine. I fell to my knees and gathered up the whimpering creature, "Oh, I'm sorry, are you alright?" She shivered, scared little thing, and I smoothed back her fur as I looked back at the man, "I... why are you looking for Tysha?" My mother's voice whispered in my ear. I couldn't let on the truth to this man, not until I was sure of his intentions.

He straightened up, hands falling from the windowsill. From the crinkle at the edges of his mouth, I could tell he knew I knew something, "Man I work for's lookin' for her. Don't give me that look, he don't want her hurt. Just wants to make sure she's still alive, maybe talk to her some."

Sometimes, when I was really little, men would visit my mother. They would threaten her, about me, about my father, that they'd kill us both if we ever went near him again. Mother always shied me into the nearest cupboard or closet when they were here. Sometime's... I could hear them forcing themselves on her. But as we fled further and further into Dorne and stayed as far from the large towns and cities as possible, eventually they stopped coming. I didn't know the names of the one who sent them, just that they were close to my father, whoever he was.

So I straightened up myself, clutching the orphaned fox to my chest. It had been a decade since the last 'visitor' and they usually came in groups of at least two. This man was one, and didn't have the same look as the others, "Who is looking for my mother?"

The man started, grim mask falling for a moment. He was genuinely surprised, meaning that he didn't know about me. That meant it probably wasn't the same person who sent him. He gathered his wits quickly, eyes narrowing as he looked me over again with new eyes, "How old're you, girl? Where's your father?"

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours," It might not be bright, faced with a seasoned soldier, but I squared my shoulders and tried to look as impressive as possible for a dirt-and-sand smeared farm girl.

He crossed his arms, " _Tyrion Lannister's_  lookin' for Tysha. Now answer  _my_  questions, or we're gonna have a problem. He paid me a lotta gold to track down her down with Varys's help, and I ain't about to let a waif stop me." I didn't like how he stressed the man's name, as though to scare me.

I gulped, but held firm. This man was not going to scare me, "My name is Synne Sand, and I am five and twenty. Tysha is my mother, and I her bastard daughter. You know she went by Myrna here, right?" He nodded, "Well, that was for a reason. Now, please good ser, I have work to do."

Keeping him in sight, I moved around the other side of the hut to my mother's grave. He hadn't attacked me, though I had no idea why someone as grand and important as the Lannister dwarf would be looking for my mother. Unless... I nearly dropped my rucksack, covering the shock by sinking to my knees at my mother's grave to start planting the flowers. The fox danced around me before curling up nearby, eyeing the man as he turned around the corner of the hut.

"I ain't done girl, and you won't want to make me angry. Where is your... mother?" There was something in his voice, something between shock and curiosity.

Just to make sure, I had to ask, "Where's the money?"

"Money? Now listen here, girl, I ain't  _payin'_  you to talk to your damn-!"

"I don't want your money," I muttered with a shake of my head. Mother said to never take money you didn't earn, and even then, "Every time that man sent those... those monsters to harass and rape my mother, he always sent coin to 'pay' her for her 'silence and services'. She never took it, and always threw it at those monsters when they left." I looked him dead in the eyes, narrowing my own, "Is that what you're here to do? Rape her? Or are did he decide to start harassing me, now that she's dead?"

"You've got a tongue on you, girl," He uncrossed his arms, and looked like he wanted to say something else until the rest of my words sank in, "... Tysha is dead?"

I motioned to the tiny grave marker before starting on my planting again, "You're standing at the head of her grave, ser."

"Fuckin' hell," The man groaned, running a hand through his hair and muttering under his breath, "Tyrion is not going to like this."

I had to ask. With the knot forming in my stomach, I had to, and I could feel a strange weary kindness from this man. He was a sellsword, that was obvious, but not totally the dishonorable kind, "Ser, my mother never told me my father's name." I watched his reaction out of the corner of my eye, "She never told me who sent her harassers, though I'm pretty sure it was one of my father's uncles or aunts or his father." I bit my lip, but kept digging flower holes with my trowel, "This Tyrion Lannister, what was he to my mother?"

"I don't know, girl," The man was clearly unsettled by something, and no way was he telling me the whole truth, "But if she's dead under there as you say, then I have no more business here."

That was it? Not even his own name, just some questions? I looked at the man in shock, but he'd already turned tail and started walking away. Before I could think, I called after him, "Wait!" He stopped and looked over his shoulder, but said nothing, "First off, I don't know your noble high-born customs, but isn't it rude to demand information without even giving your own name, ser?" It was stupid, to stand up to an armed man, but I wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away, "And second, you tell this Tyrion Lannister that my mother never used that man's money. Every coin he tried to mockingly force on her was either thrown back, or kept as a reminder." I looked back at the hut, "You tell this Tyrion Lannister that my birth nearly killed her, and she could never carry again. You tell this Tyrion Lannister that she never took a lover, a husband, or anything else, and raised me alone. You tell this Tyrion Lannister that she kept those hundred silver and the single gold coin. You tell him-"

"Keep your speeches for someone who cares, girl," He rolled his eyes and I felt angry flash white-hot through me. But, for the first time in our brief meeting, he gave me a lopsided smile, "The name's Bronn. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."

"Well then, Ser Bronn," I shrugged once, feigning disinterest and turning once again to my work, "Good day to you."

"And to you as well, Synne Sand."

Once his footsteps faded away, I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I wanted to believe it was a coincidence, that maybe there was another Tysha trying to live under another name with a bastard daughter. This Bronn hadn't expected me, so it was always a possibility, but... good god, Tyrion Lannister? The few stories I'd heard in my little hovel of the south were equal parts fantastical and worrying. How he'd defended King's Landing from the armies of Stannis Baratheon, how he had a soft spot for whores, but was one of the most intelligent men to ever take the role of Hand of the King. If that man was the one who harassed my mother, I would probably be hunted down and killed soon, now that she was dead. If... if he was my  _father_ , then... I had to take a break from planting, my hands were shaking too much. The fox padded over, nudging against one of my hands. I scratched yours ears.

"How about Florys?" It was the name of the fox from one of the funnier stories Mother would tell me as a child. The fox tilted her head, and when I scratched her ears again, she made a small, happy sound. My eyes lifted, in the direction the sellsword had vanished, "Yes, that'll be your name."

The unsettling knot in my stomach still wouldn't leave.

* * *

Bronn came to the hut a week later. Averill had already given me a giddy earful about getting visited by a dashing knight. I laughed at her. Dashing? The man was at least twice my age. He was gruff with a crudeness about him, but all she saw was his weathered gambeson and sword.

He told me that Tyrion Lannister would be visiting. He didn't ask my permission, and I didn't expect it. What noble ever asks permission? It wasn't like I didn't expect it, but still... I was nervous. Bronn didn't stay long, asking a few more questions Tyrion probably sent him via raven. The Eddars were all in a frenzy when I told them that the Hand of the King would be staying with the local Lord, Ryon Allyrion, specifically to visit me. Averill, in particular, was all in titters about it.

"You must be his bastard!" She clapped her hands together, smiling broadly, "I heard in town from Tristan, who heard from his uncle, who went to King's Landing last year that Tyrion Lannister is one of the last Lannister's alive, and has no known true or baseborn children! He could come to legitimize you!"

"It's up to King Jon to legitimize anyone," I muttered as I skinned some desert rabbits I'd caught the day before, "Besides, I don't know what he wants. Ser Bronn wouldn't say, and I wouldn't take his legitimizing if he offered it."

"What?!" Averill jumped off my hammock, startling Florys of it too, "Why wouldn't you want to be a Lady?!"

I shot her a look, "My mother always taught me that nothing comes without a price. Who tracks down a bastard just to legitimize them, unless they wanted something? I don't even know if he's...  _him_ , in the first place," I sighed, "Don't be so quick to trust nobles, Averill. They have a lot of swords and poisons in their embroidered silk clothes. Besides-" I smiled at her, "-your parents still need help, right?"

She kept on like that for a whole month. Bronn returned around once a week, first with questions about my mother (which I almost never answered) then with questions about me (that I definitely never answered). Then, as I was helping gather the wheat harvest with Maenys and Braddeck, Averill came running down the road, skirts pulled up to run faster.

"They're here!"

"Averill, where is your father?" Maenys asked dryly.

"Oh, he let me go when I told him what I saw," Averill stopped just short of me, breathless and smiling, "Six men, all on horseback, in the colors of House Lannister and House Targaryen! That sellsword friend of yours was with them, Synne. They'll be down the road soon, come from Lord Allyrion's castle!"

I felt a wave of nervousness wash over me. They were here, already? From what little I knew, shouldn't it take longer to travel through Dorne from a city as far away as King's Landing in a carriage? Unless they went straight here, taking a ship across the strait and the rest on just horseback, but that would be insane for some soft-bellied noble. Then again, from the few stories I'd heard of Tyrion Lannister, he was anything but soft.

I stood from the wheat piled, shaking like a leaf, "I... I... M-Maenys, may I...?"

"Go, go you fool girl," Maenys shooed me, a motherly look on her face, "Go home, calm yourself, pretty yourself, whatever you need to do, just go." Then she eyed her daughter, "And you are going to take her place for a spell."

Averill groaned. I could tell she wanted to see the Hand of the King closer up too, but we were working at the head of the field before the house. She'd see them long before I would. Knowing I didn't have a lot of time but not wanting to appear panting and exhausted from running, I walked as swiftly as I could back to my shack. Inside, Florys leaped from my hammock and circled me, sensing my excitement and frayed nerves. I set about trying to somehow make the shack more presentable for someone as important as the Hand of the King. Brushed off the small wooden table my mother hammered together with cast-off pieces from the local smithy, tried to somehow smooth out the dirt floor a bit more, closed mine and my mother's small trunks of belongings, and removing the drying rack full of rabbit and herbs outside, around the back of the shack. The last thing I did was brush off Mother's tiny headstone. I hesitated a moment, then flipped it and washed it off with a little cloth and some water from the nearest irrigation canal. It now read 'Tysha' instead of 'Myrna'.

Just as I finished that, I heard the hooves behind me. I couldn't make out too many details from here, but six horses had stopped at the Eddars house. Four tall men I didn't recognize, a fifth I could barely make out as Bronn, and a much shorter sixth on the grandest horse. They were a mess of blacks, golds, and reds. My heart leaped to my throat as nervousness took over. I darted inside just as the first horse turned towards my shack, Florys hot on my heels. For a moment, I paced. For another, I leaned against the shuttered window. Then, finally, took a spot on the hammock and messed with the frayed edges of its rough burlap.

The sound of hooves ended just outside, then the sounds of dismounting men. A few words, first I recognized from Bronn and the rest I didn't, followed by a sharp wrap on the shack door.

"Girl, we saw you run in there," I sighed with relief. It was Bronn first, giving me a few more seconds to wallow in my sudden nervousness, "Come on and open this door, will you?"

"Y-yes, o-of course!" I stumbled a bit standing and yelped. A couple laughed outside, before a quiet but powerful voice shushed them, "S-sorry!"

I hesitated at the door for a moment, worrying my lip. Then, just as Bronn knocked again, I opened it and had to jumped back lest he hit my face.

"Whoa there, girl," Bronn backed up, chuckling, "Needed a moment to calm yourself, eh?"

But I didn't listen to him. Surrounding the sellsword were the five men I'd seen in the distance. The other four tall ones were obviously guards. They were decked out in matching armor with red and gold tabards marked with the gold Lannister lion. The fifth was much shorter than even me - who was short for a girl to begin with - standing maybe to the top of my waist. His hair was a messy dark gold-blonde, eyes sharp and as aged as his scarred face. His facial hair was thick, obscuring some of the scarring, but the lines ran deep around his nose.

He looked at me for a long, silent moment. Bronn spoke first, "Didn't I tell you? Spitting image of a Lannister, if a bit short."

"She has Tysha's chin, her nose," The dwarf smiled. It creases the lines of his face deeply, accenting some of the scars, "But yes, the color of a Lannister."

My eyes widened a bit at that. Mother had always said similar when she talked about how I looked. Colored as my father was.

"Reminds me a bit of Myrcella and the paintings of your Lady mother at Casterly Rock," Bronn cast the man a sideways smirk, "At least she's managed to avoid the shrewishness of Cersei."

"We should stop talking about the girl in front of her, she looks like she's about to faint," The man, who didn't need to introduce himself as Tyrion Lannister, turned back to the rest, "The lot of you return to the Eddars house. You are to treat them with all the respect you would show me." Tyrion's bright eyes slid to Bronn, "Especially you, Bronn."

"What, don't trust me?" Bronn played the part of the wounded man well, clapping a hand on his chest.

"Not as far as I can through you, my friend," Yet Tyrion smiled, and soon the other five men were leading their horses - and Tyrion's, I noted - back towards the farmhouse. Only when they were gone did he turn to address me, giving the shack a look over - his eyes lingering on my mother's grave - before gesturing inside, "It's windy out here. Are you going to invite me in, or am I to stand here and get more sand in my hair?"

I quickly moved out of the way, stammering, "I... I have no chairs, milord. But there is the hammock, and I've laid a fur on mine and my mother's trunks so... um..."

He just moved passed me and sat on one of the trunks. With his size, it looked almost comfortable as a seat. I took the hammock, and Florys leaped into my lap. Tyrion didn't say anything for a long time, merely taking in the shack with the strangest look on his face. It was curious, maybe a touch angry, but held the same sad and forlorn look Mother always seemed to have.

Then his eyes fell back on me, "Bronn tells me you are Tysha's child. That she died three years ago, naturally. He also tells me you wouldn't answer most of my questions about her, or yourself. Why?"

My mouth was dry, but the Lord was patient. It was a full minute before I could answer, "I... wanted to meet you in person first, milord. There is much my mother was afraid of. I want to make sure you weren't the man who harassed her for half of my life."

"I was not," His expression turned dark. I didn't doubt that dark memories were swirling around in his head, "That particular honor goes to my Father. Tywin Lannister."

I nearly sighed with relief, but stopped myself. Something felt tense in the room, like a string pulled taunt but not yet snapped. Some of the pieces were falling into place, but I didn't want to confront the revelation they point to, "How did you find my mother?"

"My father did... unspeakable things to Tysha," Tyrion's hands clenched. I could see that ghost of anger in his eyes starting to grow, but knew it wasn't for me, "He... forced me to-"

"Milord, my mother has told me that story," I felt nervous, cutting off not only a Lord but the Hand of the King, but pressed on, "She was careful never to use names around me, but occasionally told me stories."

"You mentioned she still had the silver coins and... and the gold one," Tyrion's eyes fell to the dirt and sand floor of the shack. When he caught me gesturing to the trunk he sat on, he added, "May I?"

"They're in a cloth pouch at the bottom," I said, feeling my own sadness settling in, "She worked hard to make sure we never had to use them. Mother never took them out, called them 'blood money', and forbid me from even looking at them most times." Until she'd told me the bare bones of what happened to her, I'd always found it odd. One Gold Dragon and a hundred Silver Stags, more than enough to purchase room on a small farm, buy a horse and livestock, and food for multiple seasons for a whole family. Yet mother forbade it ever being used. When Tyrion fished out the pouch and held it, his expression darkened again. When he opened it and spilled the coins on the shack floor, his face turned to rage. Then, finally, as he knelt over to pick up the single Golden Dragon from the spilled pile, I could see water in his eyes.

"Milord?"

"Did she live well?" Tyrion's voice was thick with battling emotions. I couldn't look at the man any longer, and stared down at Florys, who stared up at me, "After my father's men stopped visiting. Did she live well?"

"She was... happy. Sort of," I smoothed down Florys's fur, who turned back to rest her head on my thigh, "I mean, Mother was always a sad woman, but she tried her best. She raised me all by herself, but it always seemed like the older I got, the more tired and sad she became. Until one day, her body just gave up... though if I had to guess, her heart was gone long before it."

"I see..." Tyrion gathered the coins and bagged them, tossing it back in the trunk. His gaze lingered inside. Her clothes, few writings, her whittling knife were all in there. I hadn't had the courage to touch them since she died, "I would like to see her grave."

I shifted Florys off my lap and tossed the fox a look when she protested. Outside, the sun rose high with a disconcerting cheeriness that belied the sadness inside the shack. Tyrion Lannister followed and knelt beside me at the head of the grave. I watched as his fingers ghosted over her name on the tiny stone, his eyes first on it before travelling to the flowers I'd planted a month and week previous.

"I assume you planted these for her."

"They were her favorites," I smiled, "I turned over the stone before you got here. Mother taught me my letters and the very little she knew of reading, but I know enough to carve both her names."

"Myrna was the other one, right?" Tyrion's hand never left the headstone, his other in the dry grasses in front of it.

I nodded, "Yes. She went by Tysha for a while after I was born, but wanted to start as fresh as possible. We went from the northern parts of Dorne when I was ten, all the way south to here, and she took the name Myrna. That's when the man's men stopped harassing us."

"I see. How..." Tyrion swallowed thickly, "How did she live before you moved to the farm here?"

My gaze fell. We didn't like remembering those times. Mother never spoke of them, and I didn't like the nightmares she gave me. Of the life we lived, of having to hide in closets and under the beds as she serviced men in the brothel... I could see in Tyrion's face that I didn't need to answer. He knew what I was thinking.

"She shouldn't be here," Tyrion said, though to me or himself I couldn't tell, "We were legally married for a short time. My father had the marriage annulled quickly. She... be the Lady of Casterly Rock right now. Or..." His thumb passed over the length of the stone, "Or possibly buried there, I suppose." Then, for the first time since we'd left the shack, he looked me full in the face, "With the timing, you were conceived when we were still wed. Had it lasted, you would have been our trueborn daughter." Then, his other hand fisted in the sand and grass, "You  _should_  be trueborn."

There it was. It fell like an anvil over me, adding a weight I hadn't felt before to my shoulders. The coins, her grave, our matching stories, his looks, my looks, her looks. There was no denying the fact that the dwarfish man kneeling next to me atop my mother's grave was my father. Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of House Lannister, was my father.

"But I was not born in wedlock, not technically," I forced a smile, "I am a bastard."

"Aye," Tyrion almost smiled, as if at some unseen joke, "I am a dwarf and you are a bastard."

He said it so nonchalantly, with no shame or disappointment in his voice at all. As if the two distinctions were equivalent. As if they didn't matter at all. He turned to me, sizing me up with a glance, and stood, "I am leaving in a week for King's Landing. I have duties there, and the King can only spare me so long." He chuckled and muttered under his breath, "That man would be lost without me and his sister." Then Tyrion stared me in the eyes again, looking down for once as I still sat on the ground, "I would wish you to accompany me."

"I won't be legitimized as a Lannister, milord," I didn't stand. Somehow it felt easier to talk to him when we were of a more similar height.

"I didn't ask that," I could feel him wanting to roll his eyes, but he didn't, "Though the thought did cross my mind. Someday in the future, perhaps. And besides-" He looked back at the shack, then around at the farm, "-the only one whose permission I would need to legitimize you is the King's." I opened my mouth to protest, but he shushed me with a hand, "But I am not the sort of man to force anything on a woman. No, I merely wish to get to know the woman my Tysha raised all on her own. Nothing more, nothing less..." Then, a crooked smile. This one crinkled less of his scars, "Though you  _would_  have access to any of the Maester's in King's Landing. Or any of the sights around the city." He chuckled, "Better clothes and accommodations at the very least."

"Milord, I... I am sorry, but..." My gaze dropped to Mother's headstone. It would be a lie to say it wasn't tempting, but... Leaving the farm would mean leaving her. Leaving the little shack by the desert woods, leaving behind the Eddars who had been so kind to us both...

Tyrion followed my gaze and must have guessed my thoughts, for he clicked his tongue and said, "I would pay the Eddars to clean and upkeep the grave and your little shack here. I would ask for a carriage from Lord Allyrion as well, since I doubt you would be comfortable riding for a month on horseback." He eyed me, eyebrow raised, " _Have_  you ever ridden a horse?"

"No, milord."

"I suppose you could call me Father now, as well," The comment was flippant, but upon seeing the horror on my face he quickly added, "Or not. But the 'milord' business makes me a mite uncomfortable, coming from Tysha's child. At least call me Tyrion."

"Thank you, um... T-Tyrion," It felt weird to say, but at least it was better than 'Father'.

"Well, that settles it. Would you prefer to stay here before you and I leave in a week, or come with me back to Lord Allyrion's castle?" Tyrion smiled and walked around me, now between me and the dirt path to the farmhouse.

"I... I would stay here until then," Castles and Lords and all the extravagance that would bring was... frightening. Even the golden fist emblem of the Hand adorning Tyrion's shirt was probably worth more than the whole tiny farm put together. And I needed some time to think.

Tyrion only shrugged, "That is fine. I'll return each day to talk and get to know my bastard. Until then." Then, with nothing more than an inclination of the head and a final look at my mother's grave, Tyrion Lannister turned on his heel and walked with purpose back to the Eddars's home. It took me a full five minutes to realize that I'd just been played. Technically, I'd never said I would go. But now I was in a bind. He's weaseled a sort-of agreement out of me without me even realizing it.

And now, I would be off for King's Landing in a week's time.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  I had so much fun writing this chapter. I technically included stuff from the books, with the insinuation that Tyrion was forced to participate in Tysha's assault and forced to pay with a gold coin, since that wasn't stated in the show, but whatever. Also, it took math to figure out how old Synne should be, since in the books the whole thing with Tyrion and Tysha happened when he was thirteen whereas in the show he was sixteen (since most got aged up it seems). Oh well. Still had a lot of fun writing this. Yay, stories! And Jon will appear eventually, as well most of the cast I let survive, no worries. This is written before the series end, so when the last season or book comes out, some may be alive that weren't in the book/show or visa versa, but whatever. My fanfic, my rules.


	3. King's Landing

**Disclaimer:**  Not mine, brah.

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Chapter Two

**King's Landing**

_"For last year's words belong to last year's language/ And next year's words await another voice./ And to make an end is to make a beginning."_

_\- T. S. Eliot_

* * *

Averill was more excited about my trip than I was, "King's Landing! Oh just think of all the things you'll see, Synne! You'll get to be in the court of the King. I hear he's quite handsome!"

I rolled my eyes and giggled a bit. Sometimes the Dornish girl's excitement was infectious, "I doubt that, Avie. I am still a bastard, after all." I closed and threw the latch on my trunk. It was the only thing I was bringing, stuffed with my meager belongings as well as all of Mother's important ones, "King's Landing is a far ways from Dorne, you know. They don't like us bastards much there."

"Well, you're not really a bastard though, are you?" I'd told her the shortest version of the story a few days after Tyrion first arrived. How my parents were married for a very short time before his father had the marriage annulled.

I sat down on the trunk to wait, "That my parents were married when I was conceived doesn't matter. They weren't when I was born, and weren't the whole of my life. I am still a bastard."

"One born out of love and passion," Averill's eyes couldn't get more starry if she tried. She had such romantic notions of the nobility. I hoped she'd be able to keep those notions as long as possible; I was under no such illusions, "Oh, you'll have to write everyday."

"We both can barely read our letters," I laughed, "But I will. That's probably the first thing my... father... will want me to know."

"Ma's gonna use the first Gold Dragon Lord Lannister gave us to to get Braddeck and I lessons in town," Averill said with a grin. Tyrion said he would give them one a year to tend to my mother's grab and her shack, which Averill was in charge of, "It won't be like the tutor's in King's Landing of course."

And there was her devilish little smirking. I found myself at a sudden loss. Who knew when I would see this tiny little farm and it's desert trees again? I grabbed Averill and hugged her fiercely, tears stinging my eyes, "oh Avie... You'll be good, right?"

"You sound like Ma," She hugged me back just as tightly. Over her shoulder, a carriage and five men on horseback crested over a hill. I held her tighter, "We'll see each other again, Synne."

"Of course, you're like a sister to me," I pulled back as the carriage passed the farmhouse and stopped. The dirt path to my shack wouldn't be good for it, "You could probably plant that herb garden that you always wanted behind the shack, you know. I'll send medicinal herb seeds from King's Landing if I can."

"Really?!" And then her arms were thrown back around me and she squealed, "Thank you, thank you!"

"This is a touching sight."

I pulled away when Tyrion spoke. He was smiling, walking beside Bronn. I could see the others with the horses and the carriage by the farmhouse. I stood off the tiny trunk and Bronn moved around me to take it without a word, but smirking himself. I bowed to my... father, "Thank you for your generosity with the Eddars, milord."

He crossed his arms but still smiled as he said, "I thought we'd talked about that, Synne. Tyrion or Father."

"Sorry, it'll take some um... time," I said, sheepish. Averill looked between us both, all giddy and smiling. I gave her one last hug and said, "Take care of your brother, okay? He's useless without us."

"I will, now get before the heat of the day comes," Averill giggled and smacked me on the shoulder.

I was going to miss her. As Tyrion led me to the carriage and Bronn helped me inside, it started to hit me. I'd said goodbye to the others the night before, since I didn't think I could bare it in the morning (Averill insisted on seeing me off). But as the carriage pulled away from the farm, it pulled back at me keenly. The Eddars farm was the only real home I knew, and the longest one I'd ever had at fifteen solid years. Mother and I had never been further than shouting distance from each other, even after she died, but now with every step of the horse's pulling the carriage, that distance grew.

"You've been quiet," Tyrion mused, sipping a glass of wine from a compartment in the carriage.

I took a moment to look around the carriage for the first time since we'd boarded. It was of obvious Dornish make, with wide windows with pulled back sheer silk curtains on both sides. A table was built into the floor between them, covered in a fine cloth. It was ornate and expensive - I was sure some of the decorative fastenings were real gold - and all swirls and curved, polished wood and it made me shift uncomfortably on my plush seat.

"I-I'm sorry, milord..." He shot me a look, "... Tyri...  _Father_. It's just that this is... a lot to take in."

Tyrion had visited the farm every day in the week before we left, spending long hours discussing my mother and myself, our likes and dislikes. He gave me names to put to my mother's stories; his late brother Jaime being the one who tracked down her would-be rapers while Tyrion soothed my mother when they first met, the drunk septon they'd found to marry them, and everything else. We never talked about the final night, when Tywin destroyed their short-lived marriage. For us, it was only the happier times. But now I was faced with my father's wealth. I knew it would be nothing to what I would see at King's Landing, but it was still so much...

He seemed to sit a little straighter when I called him Father. It wasn't an often occurrence, not yet, "Aye, it would be for a peasant girl, wouldn't it?" Tyrion tilted his head a bit, studying me in a long enough silence to be uncomfortable, "But you don't seem in awe of it, like I'd have thought of a bastard raised low-born. You look scared, Synne."

"Mother taught me never to trust money or titles," I played with my entwined fingers for a moment, then looked out at the sand dunes of Dorne, "That gold is impressive and shiny and silk is beautiful to look at, but that's all they are." My gaze dropped. I remembered some of the things she said exactly, "'People are what matters, not things, Synne. Even Kings can be monsters'."

"Tysha was a good woman," Tyrion said, voice low, "So you're scared of wealth and power?"

I shook my head, "No, just weary of them."

"Smart," When I looked back, Tyrion was tilting his glass towards me in a sort-of salute, "You are right to be weary. Some of the greatest monsters I've ever known were also the richest and most powerful."

For many hours after that, we sat in companionable silence. Bronn and I chatted from his spot on a horse on my end of the carriage. Our first stop, very late in the day as the sun disappeared, was at The Tor. I'd never been to the coastal town, and when Tyrion mentioned petitioning the local lord for lodging, I stiffened. Seeing this, Tyrion smiled crookedly and instead we ended up in one of the fancier local inns. This is how the next month went, travelling through Dorne from the Sunspear to Yronwood. Then, for the first time in my life, I left the borders of Dorne and entered the Reach. Sands and dunes gave way to more pleasant, spring-like atmosphere. It was a bit colder, but only a bit. Even when we crossed from the Reach into the Crownlands proper, the weather was still far, far more warm than Tyrion's stories of the frozen North. When we were a half day from King's Landing and after Tyrion sent a raven to warn of his imminent arrival, I asked him about the King. I'd heard stories about the Northerner King, raised a bastard only to discover he was the legitimately born heir of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, but stories of the North were few in the far South, and probably full of all kinds of extravagant lies.

Tyrion laughed at the insinuation, "Some think he shits dragon eggs and could kill a seasoned soldier with a single look." He shook his head, and outside the carriage I could see even Bronn smiling, "Jon prefers the name Stark or even Snow to Targaryen, but took his birth father's name after becoming King following the end of the war at the behest of the noble's and in honor of his aunt. Stopped short of taking the name Aegon, however." Tyrion paused, thoughtful for a moment, "He's a dark, brooding sort of man. Doesn't talk much, not prone to extravagant speeches, but when he  _does_  speak, everyone listens." He chuckled and took a swig of wine, "He's a striking lad, if a bit on the intense side. Brash, not unlike his birth father, but with all the honor and down-to-earthness of the father who raised him, Eddard Stark."

"Was it true he was... raised a bastard?" I was curious, as a true bastard myself.

Tyrion nodded, "That he was. Wasn't until that unsettling brother of his, Brandon Stark, returned and Maester Samwell Tarly found records in the Citadel of the marriage that the truth came out."

"I'm sure he was relieved, to find out he wasn't a bastard."

He shot me a look that told me I'd said something very wrong, and I flinched. But Tyrion covered the look with a tight-lipped grin, "I wouldn't say as much within earshot of him. The King's feelings on discovering his parentage are... complicated to say the least."

"I... I see. I'm sorry, Father."

"Hah, not me for you to be sorry for," he waved a dismissive hand, "Now look out the window, Synne. You should start seeing the city now."

To say the Westeros capital was massive would be an understatement. It laid at the water's edge, and we above it as the carriage and horses's descended the mountains. Collossal walls rose high, shielding some of the tall building's from view. However, the tallest would not be hidden. At the very back edge of the city, at the end of an cape stretching from the city proper, was the largest single structure I had ever seen. The walls on either side seemed to grow to meet it, wrapping around the back but still never rising high enough to obscrube it from view. In fact, the taller walls seemed to only rise a third of the way up it's imposing walls. As the carriage drifted down the road, more and more of the glittering city was obfuscated by it's walls until, when the road reached the level of the walls itself, all it's impressive buildings were hidden.

Tyrion called the gate the carriage entered the Gate of the Gods, and it deserved the name. It rose higher than the rest of the walls but a bit, with a gigantic door I was willing to bet big enough for a dragon to comfortably pass through. Yet we went through a smaller gate, nestled in the center of the larger one, after one of the soldiers at the head of Tyrion's retinue shouted our arrival. His booming voice had be shrinking back a bit in my seat, butterflies flipping about in the pit of my stomach. We had arrived in the grandness that was King's Landing. Tyrion chuckled at me, earning him a pathetic glare, which he returned with a salute and swig of his wine.

As the carriage trotted through the wide main thoroughfare and the noises of the city greeted us, I couldn't help but peek back out of the windows. All kinds of smells and sights assaulted me; fresh breads as we passed plenty of bakers and food merchants, less pleasant ones as we passed over a sewer grate or two. Guardsmen on patrol, who always stopped to bow or salute to our carriage. I knew it was for my Lord Father and in respect of his position as Hand, but the sight still had my cheek's coloring a deep rose.

But the city was not all grand. Here and there were the signs of the riots, the wars, and the battles that broke out since the death of King Robert Baratheon. Some for the falling buildings had scaffolding and worker's to repair them, but a few others I could spy down longer streets away from the main one's were still left as piles of rubble. As we came to the colossal market square, I looked to the left down what Tyrion pointed out as the Street of Sister. It was a very long ways off, but I saw the largest construction effort taking place there.

"They're rebuilding the Dragonpit for Drogon and Rhaegal," Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tyrion take a swig of wine, "No other place to hold the beasts, not when they won't stop growing. I swear, if those two reach the size of Balerion..." He chuckled, more to himself than me, "Well, they're the last. Neither are female, so there's no hope of them having little dragons. Still, they'll last another full generation at least." Then, under his breath and so quiet I barely caught it, he added, "Jon takes good care of her children."

"I thought there were three dragons," As the far off Dragonpit left my view, I sat back down, "We always heard stories in the South of the Mother of Dragons and her three dragons."

"Aye, there were three, and now there are two," Tyrion nodded sagely, "Dragons aren't nearly as infallible as the sagas claimed."

After that, we didn't speak much. Tyrion commented on the sights of the city here and there, such as the ruins of the great Sept of Baelor, where his favorite bawdy houses were - I groaned and he laughed - and went into great detail about all his favorite places for food and drink. When that story finished, my stomach growled so loudly that I turned such a shade of red that Tyrion gave a belly laugh so loud that Bronn pulled his horse up beside us.

"You embarrassing the lass, you old dwarf?"

"Of course," Tyrion said without a care, "I have five and twenty years of fatherly embarrassment to catch up on. Might as well start as soon as I can."

It took a long while to traverse the length of the city. Tyrion explained some of the most basic etiquette, remarking that I shouldn't make a fool of myself immediately or I would never hear the end of it. Seeing how nervous  _that_  remark made me, he launched into multiple stories of different horrible things that had happened to those who breached protocol.

"Once, the Mad King Aerys II had a man flayed alive and fed to his family for the crime of making eye contact with his wife."

"Tyrion!"

His eyes glittered, "Well, Jon doesn't have no wife, but I'd not make eye contact with his dragons if you can help it. He treats them better than I've seen most men treat their wives."

I sighed and ran a hand down my face. Those butterflies in my stomach were just flitting around worse in there, and he knew it. In our short acquaintance, I realized something about my dwarf father; he enjoyed wordplay and watching people squirm. The carriage began to rise again with the road. Tyrion said it was called Aegon's High Hill here. I remembered something that he'd said earlier, about King Jon's birthname of Aegon. I wondered for a moment what he thought of that, living on a hill that carried his namesake.

We'd already passed too close for me to get a good look at the Red Keep from here, but I poked my head out anyway. It's stones, depending on where I looked, had either a reddish tint or stood out stark white. There were so many people here, guards and servants and lords and ladies and all manner of people. There were so many of them that my anxiety mounted and I half-slammed back into my cushioned sheet.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow and I said quickly, "I... I'm not used to so many people."

For what seemed like the thousandth time today, he laughed at me and I colored a deep scarlet, "You never left that little farm much, did you?"

"Pretty much never, milor..." Seeing his look, I quickly amended, "... Father."

As the carriage came to a halt, my heart leaped. Tyrion stood and disembarked first with one of his men's help. Bronn offered me a hand and helped me down as well, Florys clutched to my chest with the other hand. I gazed about in wonder; we were in a large courtyard, in front of large doors, surrounded by large plants and large windows and just... everything was so  _large_.

"Bring our things to the Tower of the Hand, if you would," Tyrion instructed a couple of his men, pointing this way and that. He thanked the Dornish driver of the carriage, "Give my regards and thanks back to your Lord and... here is a little something extra for your troubles."

The man took the small pouch of money with a surprised smile and thanked my father. Before the carriage pulled away, Tyrion patted my hip and gestured to the doors. Bronn followed just behind us, and I stuck as close to both as I could. If the Keep's grandiosity was meant to impress and intimidate, it had done both thoroughly.

"She looks like she's 'bout to faint, Tyrion," Bronn said. I didn't have to look back to know the sellsword was smiling.

Tyrion looked up at me and shrugged, "Worry not, Synne. Trust me, after a while all the pompousness gets a little boring."

I couldn't believe that, not as we went inside the sun-lit first hall and it's lush carpeted rugs and fine banners draped down the walls. I saw so many and looked with such wonder as Tyrion pointed out each emblem and said the name of the house that it belonged to. At the end, the two largest and grandest of banners stood. The one on the left was white as the whitest sand, emblazoned with the lead of a howling wolf. The other held a huge three-headed red dragon, all curved in a circular pattern and sitting upon a background as black as pitch.

"On the left is House Stark, house of Jon's mother," Tyrion pointed to the wolf's head, "And the other is House Targaryen, house of his father."

"Tyrion!" A kind-looking, aged old man with much white in his hair and beard walked swiftly to Tyrion and clapped him on the shoulder, "I heard word you had returned!"

"As you see," Tyrion said dryly, though a smile tugged at his lips. He motioned up at me, "Ser Davos, this is my daughter Synne Sand. Synne, this is Ser Davos, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"Milady, you are a vision," His smile was warm, grandfatherly. I had a feeling I was going to like this man quite a bit. He turned to Tyrion, "You've been gone over two months, my friend. We have a lot to talk about, and a meeting of the small council is to begin soon."

"Back to work already?" Tyrion scoffed, jerking a thumb back, "I've barely walked in the front door, Davos."

"Aye, but there's been some... discussion's about the mining at Dragonstone and the restoration of the more northern reaches of the North that were hit hardest by the Night King," Davos shot my father a pointed look, "And you know how His Majesty feel about  _both_  those."

For the first time since we left Dorne, my father gave a weary sigh. He sent me an apologetic look, "I was hoping to get us settled in, maybe show you around a bit, but it seems that business is to call me away. Bronn, I trust you'll show her to the Tower? I sent a raven there for the servants to prepare a couple nights ago, so they'll be expecting her."

"Aye, can do that," Bronn said gruffly.

Tyrion sent me another apologetic look before leaving with Ser Davos. That left Bronn and myself alone in the hall of bustling servants and lords. I held Florys a bit tighter to me and Bronn rolled his eyes, "Come on, lass."

I followed him through the grand halls and winding corridors of the Red Keep. There were just so many doors, so many rooms and stairs, that it was dizzying. I had no idea how in the world I was to find myself around the place without getting horribly lost.

We passed through a covered walkway lined on either side with thick, strong stone pillars. In front lie the entrance to a grand tower, and to the right was lush green grass, some flowering bushes, and another archway. Beyond I could see trees, tall with thick bows. It looked like a small piece of the lush forests we'd passed on the way through the Crownlands; utterly secluded and sparsely populated.

"What's that?" I said, pointing to the forest.

"The Godswood," Bronn grunted, casting it a short look before hurrying me on into the Tower of the Hand, "Not a lotta people go in there nowadays. Is for worship of the Old Gods, mostly."

I knew what a Godswood was, but didn't point that out, "Could I go in there? My mother followed the Old Gods, though I never had much chance to learn about them or pray to them."

Bronn shrugged, "Ain't no one gonna stop you. Careful though, King Jon's pup mostly keeps to there when it ain't with 'im."

"His... pup?" I blinked as we started to ascend the tower. King Jon had a son? This was the first I'd heard of it, I wonder why Jon didn't mention-

"Big as all hell direwolf, terrifying white beast with eyes as red as blood," Bronn said, "Best keep your distance from it. Calm and fucking quiet for a creature it's size, but has one hell of a bite from what I've seen."

I held Florys a bit tighter and scratched behind her ear. The fox was definitely going to stay locked up in my room when not beside me. A giant wolf, in the Red Keep? Part of me really wanted to see the beast; the other was apprehensive.

A short ways up the tower we came to a large antechamber of sorts. I assumed it was the receiving and entertaining chamber for the Hand. A dozen servants milled about, and a couple guards. Upon seeing me, all stopped what they were doing and bowed. I darted half behind Bronn, who raised an eyebrow.

"Stop hiding, girl. You may be a bastard, but these here are Lannister servants. They wouldn't want to cross Tyrion by givin' you no grief," He spoke a little louder than needed, casting a look over the lot.

An elderly lady stepped forward. She looked... kind, if a bit large and forceful. She reminded me of Maenys, "You must be milord's daughter, Synne Sand."

"Y-yes," I gulped and stepped out from behind Bronn, "Th-that's me."

She motioned for one of the female servants, a tall but somehow still mousy fiery-headed girl that looks just as nervous as I felt, "Name's Nan Groundswell. This here is my granddaughter, Lisette. I'm head servant in the Tower, and she'll be your lady in waiting."

"Hello, Lisette," I made a little wave, hoping to make us both feel better. Bronn just laughed, and my arm fell.

Nan looked Bronn, "I'm sure you have duties, ser. We'll take the girl from here; Uric and Bolston already delivered her trunks."

Bronn turned to me, gave me a once over, and clapped a hand on my shoulder, "Yer in good hands, Synne."

"Y-you're leaving?" I didn't want him to go and leave me alone with strangers. He was the last somewhat familiar thing here, now that my father had been whisked away.

"Don't gimme that look, girl," He huffed, "I live in the Tower too; Tyrion's bodyguard and all. But I've got a lotta duties besides. Like I said, yer in good hands here."

I sighed and stepped away from the man, "... alright."

Bronn left and Nan and Lisette whisked me away further up the Tower. They told me that my Father was housed at the very top, with many more rooms for anything from entertaining - like the large room we'd left - to rooms for guests, members of the Lannister household, even a very small library and study and a school room for the Hand's children to learn in. I wondered if I would end up there.

Then they brought me to a colossal bedroom. It was at least five times the size of mother's whole shack, maybe even more. The place was decked out in reds and golds of the Lannisters, with a huge plush bed taking up a portion of one end, wreathed with floor length curtains. Armoires, chests, and all manner of furniture and decoration littered the room. A small open door led to a large washroom with a curved tub and privy. One side of the room was open, with great windows and a glass door leading to a small sun-lit balcony.

Bronn was right in the hall. I was going to pass out.

"Milady?!" Nan and Lisette rushed to my side as I slipped over and fell on the bed with a soft plop. By the Gods, it was  _velvet_. Real, actual  _velvet_.

"I'm sorry, I just..." From a shack on a farm to this. Good Gods, my whole world was turned on it's head. It was so dizzying, "I've lived on a tiny Dornish farm all my life, and this... I just..."

Lisette giggled a bit, but Nan beat her to commenting, "You'll get used to it quick, girl. Lord Lannister has me putting together a study schedule for you, activities, lessons, all manner of things to keep your mind occupied. You'll forget the farm soon enough."

I know she meant it as comforting, but I felt like my veins were injected with ice. That was the last thing I wanted. The very last.

Remember you are a bastard, Synne. Remember where you came from, who raised you. Remember, remember. Never forget what your grandfather did you your mother. Never forget the Eddars, never forget Averill, never forget.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Nan and Lisette were done with me. In the ornate bathroom, I was washed by them with scented oils and soaps. They dried my hair, dressed me, and set about braiding two braids around the crown of my head, pinning them in the back. I stopped them from applying any sort of make-up on me. I felt like a doll already, my heart pounding and head spinning from just... everything. They left me to my thoughts, Nan promising to send someone when Tyrion returned for dinner. He usually took it with the King, but wanted my first dinner to be with him in the Tower.

I stood on the Tower's balcony, looking down at the river's and city below. From here, I could see most of it, even some of the great ocean to the east, but the Tower faced more of the southern side of the city. As the sun set further still and Tyrion hadn't returned, my gaze dropped down to the Godswood. It stood out starkly against the rest of the Red Keep, and overlooked the river that ran along one end of the city. A spot of pure green among the red and white stones.

I felt myself drawn to there. It was... stifling to my conflicted mind to stay in the Tower. I was used to forests - though less green and more sandy yellows - and open spaces. Not confining dressed and hard walls.

With that thought, I went back inside. Nan hadn't sent anyone for me, and Bronn already told me I could go to the Godswood if I was careful to avoid the King's direwolf. I caught an image of myself in the mirror, and for a moment froze. I looked nothing like myself. Gone were the dirt smears on my hands, the plain tan skirts and torn sleeved threadbare tunic. They were stuffed in my trunk, the tiniest and most out of place thing in the room against the wall furthest from the door. The dress was a deep blue-green, richly embroidered. I was glad; I'd assumed whatever noble clothes Tyrion had ordered for me would all be Lannister reds and golds. The neckline was something Nan called a "Queen Ann", resting just above my bust but rising high to the back of my neck behind. At least it was sleeveless; some of the ladies in the entrance hall had such ghastly fluttering things around their elbows.

But I still didn't feel like me. The restrictive garments just... didn't feel right. Nan said I would get used to it, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Florys tried to jump after me, but I hushed her and set the fennec fox back inside. She whined, once, but I shot her a loon and she bounded back to the water bowl Nan set for her against the wall.

I didn't see anyone in my descent down the large spiral staircase down the Tower, save at the room near the bottom. Lisette caught my eye, but quickly went back to food preparations at the large table there. At the bottom stood two guards I hadn't noticed before; both eyed me, but said nothing as well. I wondered if that's how it was as a noble; a lot of looks, but not a lot of talking.

I walked quickly into the Godswood, releasing the breath I hadn't known I was holding when I was finally hugged by the trees and bushes. There were no staring eyes here, just like Bronn has insinuated. I didn't see any beast either, so cautiously walked deeper into the Godswood. Slowly, some of my anxiety and nervousness melted away, and I smiled. I walked through the large trees, deep green and wild grasses and bushes, until a sight struck me. The Heart tree was no weirwood - it lacked the white bark and bloody red-pink leaves my mother told me about - but it took larger and taller than any of the others. It seemed like it had five trunks, all reaching for the sky like fingers, coming together in the center just above the ground, leaving what looked like a seat where they met. A brook - artificially carved or natural, I couldn't tell, wove between the bushes and wrapped around one side of the Heart tree.

So that was where I sat, swathed in the impenetrable shade of the three and nestled by it's large trunks. I don't know how long I sat there, but the orange of the sky gave way to deep reds and purples, some even darker blues that filtered through the leaves.

It was there that I saw the beast Bronn talked about. It stood, tall and regal, just to my left. I hadn't heard it approach, and it merely stared at me with unnervingly intelligent red eyes. It did growl and it didn't approach. I could feel it wasn't angry or scared. Merely curious, as if to ask  _'Who are you? What are you doing here?'_

So, ignoring Bronn's earlier advice, I reached a hand out to the direwolf, "I'm safe, boy."

It's eyes slid to my hand, then back to my face. After a long silent moment the wolf took a step forward, then again stared at my hand. I could feel it's weariness.

"I'm just as confused by this place as you are by my presence," I smiled, careful to show no teeth, "Come here and see, if you don't believe me."

And the wolf did, walking over to sniff at my outstretched hand. After a moment of regarding my face and hand with a tilted head, the wolf pushed at my arm with it's nose and sat down. The weariness was still there in it, but much less so. I took this as a good sign and ran my hand through the fur at it's back. It looked back up at me for a moment, huffed, and laid down at my feet. I giggled and resumed my patting. It just wanted to be pet.

"How do you like it here, boy?" I asked.

It looked back up me with a look that screamed boredom. When I scratched behind it's ears, it rested it's hand against it's paws.

"Well, I hope it's a bit better for me than that," I smiled sadly, and looked to the side at my reflection in the brook, "A little scared here... well, a lot scared. Everything is new and it's only been a day but I-"

The direwolf shot up. I started as it ran off, jumping clear over the brook and to one of the other entrances to the Godswood. A man stood there, staring right at me as the direwolf went to it's side. As it stared at the man, I could feel happiness. From the direwolf Bronn said the King owned. He wore no crown, so I assumed he was someone close to the King. He was dressed far too well for a guard, though wore a dark gambeson and had a sword at his side.

The only thing I could think was  _'I'm in so much trouble.'_

"Who are you?" The man asked, looking from me to the wolf, "Ghost doesn't usually warm up to people so quickly."

"I... I am Synne," I gulped, using the tree as emotional as well as physical support to lift myself up and brush my dress off, "Synne, um... Sand."

"Tyrion mentioned you, his found bastard," The man walked deeper into the woods, closer to me.

My eyes narrowed, "Aye, I am a bastard. What of it?"

"Nothing," He said gruffly.

As he moved closer, I got a better look at the man. He stood a full head and shoulders taller than me. His hair was very dark blackish color, wild and curly and pushed back from his face by a band at the neck. His eyes shown dark and flashed like obsidian. Both his hair and eyes stood out again his pale skin, skin that was marred with a scar through his eyebrow. He wore no cloak - it was quite warm tonight - but had on a layered gambeson and gorget. He looked more like a man going to battle than a noble. He was also the most breathtakingly handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. I reminded myself what my mother would say; a pretty face means little, it's the man underneath that counts.

He walked to the heart tree in silence, the direwolf - Ghost, the man called him - following behind. When he didn't speak, I did, "I've never been in a Godswood before, milord. Yet I already find it my favorite place in all King's Landing."

His eyebrows shot up, surprised by my forwardness, "Is that so?"

I nodded and turned to the tree, resting a hand on the rough bark, "I was raised among the sands and woods of Dorne. Free room to run, to play, and though the work was hard, it was honest." I looked up for a moment in the direction of the Tower, though I couldn't see it well through the trees, "This place is a maze. Too many halls and doors and stairs."

"I've been here two years, and still am not used to it either," The man said as he placed a hand on the trunk opposite mine.

Finally, someone who understood! "My father, Bronn, Nan; they all said I'd get used to it. But..." I slapped at my skirts and laughed, "This is all too much! I'm a peasant bastard, not some noble!"

He didn't smile, but I could see a hint of mirth in those bottomless dark eyes. I got the feeling this man didn't smile much, "You speak of being a bastard frankly."

"And why should I not?" I shrugged.

"This isn't Dorne," He plucked off a leaf and let it drift into the brook and scowled, "Bastards are never made welcome here."

My hackles rose, previous mirth forgotten. So that's the way this was going to be, was it? I moved around the tree, now in full view of the man and glared, "My father has made me welcome. As has Ser Bronn. I apologize,  _milord_ , if my status as a bastard  _offends_  you, but rest assured that I don't give a damn what you or any other have to say about it. Birth means nothing before the strength of one's character, and even the most high-born of men can be monsters."

If anything, he looked surprised. Whether it was at my outburst or my words, I didn't know, "I meant no offense, Lady Synne. I apologize."

The man's stare was one of the most penetrating things I'd ever been subjected to. My anger was gone in a snap, replaced by raw nerves. I couldn't look at him anymore, and the white-furred Ghost took a few steps forward to nudge my hand.

"He likes you," The man smiled then. It was a small thing, just a twitch at the corners of his lips, but it was there. And it was both beautiful and somehow soul-crushingly sad at the same time.

So I had to ask him, "Who-?"

"Lady Synne!"

It was Lisette calling from the entrance closest to the Tower. She was still mostly obfuscated by trees, but as my head whipped from her back to the man, I saw he was leaving without a word. I wanted to call out, to finish my question, but didn't and soon he disappeared through another archway.

Lisette trotted up, panting, "I am glad you are here, milady. I saw you leaving, but didn't realize it was for here until Ser Bronn mentioned it. Come, come, it's time for supper."

I nodded and followed her back, leaving the Godswood behind. At the entrance, I turned back for a moment. Through the trees I could barely make out the heart tree, and found myself wondering... who was the man with the obsidian eyes?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  If that ain't obvious. Also, I will laugh if, when the last book/season are released, like 90% of this fanfic is directly contradicted. I'll keep doing it regardless, but I'll still laugh.


	4. The Daughter's Talent

**Disclaimer:**  Don't own a damn thing.

* * *

Chapter Three

**The Daughter's Talent**

_"Everyone has talent. What's rare is the courage to follow it to the dark places where it leads."_

_\- Erica Jong_

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Tyrion took a generous sip of wine before setting it down. It was just us at the table; the servants were off doing whatever servants do and Bronn preferred the company of the town to that of the castle, "You got a little stir crazy, went to the Godswood, met the King's beast, befriended said beast, and possibly offended a nobleman when he called you a bastard?" I flushed and looked down at my food. I heard him drink more wine, then chuckle, "You work fast. Try not to alienate every noble in the castle too quickly, Synne."

My blush deepened and I nibbled at the end of some bread, "S-sorry."

"Standing up for yourself is - almost - never a bad thing," He shook his head, grinning, "But I know the man you met. He probably didn't mind. In fact, it was probably refreshing for him."

"You know him?" My head shot up, "Who was he?"

Tyrion placed a stubby finger on his lips, "You'll find out."

I glared and he laughed. We ate, then Tyrion stood to excuse himself. I started to gather up the plates - the food was of a simpler type than I'd seen him eating on the way to King's Landing - and I could tell that it was him trying to ease me into life as a noble bastard. When he saw me cleaning up, he raised an eyebrow, "If it makes you feel better, but we do have servants for that."

"Mother always taught me to clean up after myself," I said, folding napkins and stacking plates, "So yes, it does make me feel better."

He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head and taking the center staircase up, probably to his chambers. I tilted my head, thoughtful. In this and my other interactions with Tyrion Lannister, a pattern was emerging. Whenever I brought up something my mother had said or taught me, either shut him up, he would agree, or let me do whatever it was. I wouldn't abuse it, like making up something she'd said, but still... It was interesting.

* * *

I woke early the next day, when the sun was just about to rise. I was still on the schedule of a farm girl. Florys stirred next to me in the bed before jumping right on my chest and licking my cheek.

"Hullo there, girl," I spoke thickly with sleep and scratched the fox's head, "Whaddaya think about all this, hmm?" She tilted her head left, then licked my cheek again. I laughed and patted her back, "Yeah, sounds about right."

I extracted myself from the too-plush blankets and bedding. The lighting was still dim, so I slid out of bed and half stumbled to the ornate desk against the wall. It was emblazoned with the Lannister emblem and was that... gold filigree? My eyebrow twitched as I sat down. For the next who knows how long, I tried to write Averill a letter about my arrival. The words were all kinds of messed up and sloppy. Sometimes it took many minutes to remember how to right a certain letter correctly, and I cringed to think of how hard Tyrion and Bronn would laugh if they saw it. But I folded it as neatly as I knew how regardless. I'd never sent a letter, but finding that sort of help in the Red Keep shouldn't be too difficult.

Lisette and Nan came soon after I finished. I looked up in surprise at their knocking, and let them in. Nan set about warming the bath water while Lisette sorted through the armoire I hadn't had the courage to sift through myself.

"G-good morning, um..." I'd had a bath yesterday, hadn't I? Lisette was laying out a burgundy colored gown. I cringed, knowing that meant I would be back in the world of restrictive clothing, "I just took a bath yesterday Nan, and Lisette... do I have to wear those clothes again? Can't I have something more... flowing?"

Nan shot me a look that shot down my first comment, "Thing's run a bit differently for ladies here in the Red Keep, Lady Synne. Besides, I have it on good authority that you'll be introduced to the King today. Need to look your best, you know."

That had me sweating, but then my savior in the form of Lisette came swooping in, "Grandma, maybe the light blue dress? That one in the style of the Reach? It has more of an empire waist, to help her ease into more Westerland cloth-"

"Yes, yes, that'll do girl," Nan bustled back in from the bathroom and ushered me inside. I shot Lisette a smile and mouthed my thanks before Nan shut the tore and practically tore my sleeping shift off me.

Soon I was washed, dried, primped and dressed. I was thankful to Lisette; the dress was loads better than yesterdays, tied just under my breasts and flaring out from there without any petticoat. I was pretty sure that if I spun fast enough, the skirt would flare out into a perfect circle. As I went downstairs for what I hoped was breakfast, I saw that nothing was at the table. Florys jumped and darted passed me, finding a larger plush couch to be very comfortable. But I was puzzled. Did noble's not break their fast until later?

As if to answer my thoughts, Tyrion came down the steps behind me, mussing with the fastening of his Hand of the King emblem, "Blasted thing. My fingers are two fucking big for-"

I knelt down and tossed him a look before plucking the brooch from his hand, sliding the pin side into his vest, and snapping it shut. Then I turned heel and went to scratch a curious Florys.

"... You really are your mother's daughter," He gave a big-bellied laugh but stayed on the stairs, "She would do the same sorts of things with my fumbling."

My hand froze on Florys's back. He always spoke fondly about Mother, but usually with a heavy sadness. This was anything but, so I gave him a wide smile of my own and asked, " Noble's break their fast?"

"Usually it is here, but as you see," Tyrion gestured to the empty table, "Today is different. Today we are dining with the King and his sister, Lady Arya Stark, and some members of the small council."

I paled, a thousand thoughts going through my mind. A bastard, dining with the King of Westeros? There had to be some rule against that. And not only the King, but his lady sister and some of the most powerful people in all King's Landing, if not all Westeros.

"F-father, now I'm just a low-raised girl, but even I'm not so crass as to think a bastard could dine with-"

"You will never find people who give less of a fuck about your being baseborn than the people we're to dine with," His eyes narrowed and expression darkened. As Tyrion strode over to the couch, he suddenly felt ten feet tall, "What happened to judging people based on their character, not their birth?"

"Th-that's one thing, but you told me not to alienate all the nobles so quickly!"

He crossed his arms, "And I also just told you that you have nothing to worry about from the King, his family, or anyone on the small council. Meet them, get to know them, and if any other high born knob end gets antsy in his breeches you hold your head high and own what you are."

"What I am?" I muttered, looking away from the man.

"A woman born out of love," I looked back to see his expression had softened and his arms dropped, "Who is a bastard by technically, but a bastard proud of who she is and of the mother who birthed her. Now come, let's not keep Jon  _Snow_  waiting."

He'd stressed the King's former surname for a reason. To remind me that the King was a former bastard, and unlikely to treat anyone baseborn different from highborn. We left shortly after, with a strong command from me keeping the excitable Florys from following.

There were less people in the halls this early in the morning. There was a bit of a chill, and I was glad for the short caplet like piece that Lisette gave me to wear. We crossed into the covered walkway outside the tower and went in the opposite direction from the Godswood. Inside were more corridors and more walkways and more stairs.

Knowing that I would be lost without Tyrion as my guide, I nearly sighed with relief when he finally stopped outside large doors flanked on either side by gleaming armored men. I gulped as they set hands in the door to open it, feeling an explosion of nervousness in my belly. Then, when they opened the door, I saw him.

The man from the Godswood last night sat at the head of the table. He wore similar dark clothing, though his wild hair was untied and his curls fell freely. But that was not what caught my attention. That was on the pedestal directly behind where he sat at the head of the table. Ghost, the direwolf from before, was curled around the base and upon a glittering velvet cushion if royal purple sat the Westeros crown. With his position to it and the closeness if the wolf, I fought hard to keep from fainting on the spot.

The man was Jon Targaryen. The man I'd yelled at last night, whose direwolf I'd befriended, was Jon Targaryen, King of Westeros.

He was staring at me with those obsidian eyes, and I could see from his face and the similarly colored woman to his left that they were expecting a reaction out of me. I decided I wouldn't give them one, and merely smiled with a low - but clumsy - bow. The woman rolled her eyes while King Jon looked somehow impressed.

"Your Majesty, my daughter Synne Sand," Tyrion gestured at me and we moved around the table. He sat at the King's right and I between Tyrion and Davos. As the others went back to their meal, he gestured to each in turn, starting with the severe looking woman with the King's coloring, "Arya Stark, the King's sister." Then, lower still, "Don't call them cousins, even though that's what they technically are. Same if you ever meet the others, Bran and Sansa." Then to the next, a round man with a balding head, "Varys, Master of Whisperers." The man nodded at me. He had a kind but mysterious look. Going down the table, the next was a darker skinned man in darker leathers named Grey Worm, the Master of Laws and Ships, and next to him was his wife and advisor to the King, Missandei. Then at the other end was the Grand Maester Wolkan, formerly the Maester of Winterfell. I looked around, confused. From the little I knew from talks on the way to King's Landing, shouldn't there be another? A Master of Coin?

Tyrion saw my confusion and merely gestured to himself. Ah, it shouldn't surprise me that he would take on multiple jobs.

I felt eyes boring into me. It was King Jon, I realized with a start, so I busied myself with the food. Unlike the night before, this was... rich. Very rich; eggs and meat and little thin cakes with some red berries I'd never seen before. And there were too many utensils. Four different kinds of forks. Who needed that many forks?!

I tried to be subtle, looking out the corner of my eyes at the others to try and get some clue of how to eat this without making a fool of myself. Every person seemed to have their own etiquette here, and I nearly sighed with relief when I saw that neither the King nor his sister had what I would call the best manners.

Tyrion rested a hand on my armrest, "The food's not poisoned."

Heat rushed to my face, "No, I... I've just never seen food like this before." To try and cover my embarrassment, I took one of the forks and a bit of the berry and cake mixture. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. My eyes widened and I looked at my father, "What is this berry?"

"I believe those are called strawberries," There was that dry tone of his he used when making fun of someone.

Before he could embarrass me further the dark skinned woman asked, "So, you are from Dorne?"

I swallowed, "Y-yes."

"I've not been to Dorne myself, but I hear it's much like where I am from; deserts and dry land irrigated by canals," She smiled from the memories.

My eyes lit up, "Did you often see desert animals there too? I brought a fennec fox with me from home "

Missandei's smile widened, "I'll have to come see it sometime."

"Brother, I think Ghost wants something," Arya Stark pointed at the wolf, who was nudging King Jon's arm. The creature stood to his shoulder when he sat.

King Jon's tossed Ghost some scraps, which the beast snatched out of the air. Beside me, Davos gave a belly laugh, "You spoil that dog rotten, Jon."

He didn't answer, merely shrugging his shoulders and tossing the wolf another scrap. Ghost grabbed it, sure, but his ears were still back and flat against his head. Snout and lips tilted down with his tail swishing back and forth restlessly.

"You're bored, aren't you boy?" Ghost's snout snapped up, bloody colored eyes meeting mine. I smiled over at King Jon, "You want to stay by the King because he is your master and you care for him, but you just want to run about... the keep?" Ghost tilted his head left, "The City?" He tilted right, "... The Godswood?"

Ghost barked, startling the others at the table. I laughed, but it was cut short when he nudged King Jon's arm with more force. The King looked down at the wolf and sighed. Oh. That made more sense. Ghost looked back at me and nudged Jon's arm again. I felt a wave of frustration from the animal. He wanted Jon to go with him to the Godswood, most likely. Not to play, but - Ghost rubbed King Jon's forearm with his head while the King looked on, bewildered - to make the King feel better? About something?

"He can't go to the Godswood, Ghost," I lowered my tone a bit and the direwolf looked up at me, "Go lay down by the crown. Maybe he'll go later." I pointed at the crown and after a huff, Ghost turned, walked to it, and curled himself around the base again.

I went back to my food, only noticing mid-bite that the room was silent and the whole table stared at me. I blinked, chewed and swallowed, and put the fork down. Tyrion cleaned his throat, "That's some parlor trick, daugh-"

"How'd you do that?" I swallowed a yelp when King Jon addressed me directly. He was staring dead at me, brow furrowed, "Ghost doesn't listen to anyone but me."

"I... I w-well, your Majesty, I..." I bit my lip and looked away, unable to look at his dark eyes anymore.

"You're not in trouble, Lady Synne," That was the first time that I'd heard Varys speak up. His voice was very even toned, almost calming, "His Majesty asked you a question, however."

I gulped, took a deep breath, and forced myself to look up at the King, "I'm sorry, your Majesty. I have always had a way with animals. I rarely left the farm back home, so most of my friends and family were the wild desert animals. My mother called it my animal empathy. I understand them, better than I do people most times..." I looked passed him at Ghost, who was staring straight at me, "... and they usually listen to me."

"A fine skill," I colored at Davos's praise.

"Th-thank you, ser," I mumbled, turning back to my food with a smile.

The atmosphere of the room lifted, and I was glad I hadn't caused any offense. The King, however, didn't say a word for the rest of the meal. When he rose, everyone else did (myself clumsily and after the rest, not expecting it). He held up a hand and summoned my father and his sister to follow him. They left after Tyrion leaned over to tell me I was to be tutored by Grand Maester Wolkan after the meal. As they left, Ghost stood, stretched, and followed them. I felt much less tense without the presence of the confusing King and his eyes.

* * *

Wolkan was a kind man. Over the next month, he taught me to read and write better. A couple weeks in we began other subjects like arithmetic and history. Finally I could write letters to Averill in less that two hours or more. Her first reply came at the end of the month, also in a better hand than I'd ever seen her do. That brought a smile to my face; her and her brother were learning as well, due to the payment from Tyrion. And my mother's grave was well taken care of. No one in Westeros had a stronger green thumb than Averill Eddars. Where my strength was with animals, her's was definitely in making things grow, so in my first outing to the market's with Missandei, I bought seeds to send back to her. Nan started to teach me etiquette, and my first question was of course about the absurd number of forks. Now that I understood the silly reasons for the number (who needs a separate fork for desert, really?) I just emulated the King's sister Arya and picked whatever fork I felt like and just used that.

Missandei was turning out to be quite the friend. She made good on her promise to visit and meet Florys. We talked for hours about the desert; the things we missed, our favorite foods and parts of our respective deserts. I enjoyed hearing about Meereen and how it had changed under the rule of Daenerys Targaryen, now let by a man named Daario with a more democratic system being implemented. She was more down to earth than any other person in the castle, even my father. I found out she was a former slave, and she gave me many tips on adjusting to sudden wealth and being surrounded by powerful figures.

Varys always seemed to be at the edge of my sight. It was probably just my imagination, but either him or someone I was willing to bet was one of his spies watched my every move outside the Tower of the Hand and the Godswood nearby. It wasn't... malicious per se, merely curious. I didn't blame him; I was a Lannister bastard and an unknown quantity. He was only doing his job. Yet I noticed that Arya Stark was never far behind the Master of Whispers. A few weeks in, Tyrion mentioned that Varys was sort of apprenticing the girl; he was getting on in years and as a eunuch could not father children of his own. That Arya had "talents" useful for a spymaster. I shuddered to think of what those were.

Davos was proving his grandfatherly looks extended to his character while Bronn was more a drunken uncle than anything. During one such drunken debacle, Bronn promised to teach me how to use a sword. Davos replied that he better sober up first, lest he take my head off on accident and "piss off her father".

There were whispers. I sometimes caught them, the servants or lords and ladies talking about my status as a bastard behind my back. Never to my face - probably because of the position my father held - but with every sneer or negative word, I held my head high and walked strong. Mother taught me not to let comments get to me, and Father shored up those feelings. I would be proud of what I am, and where I came from.

Yet when they did get to me and I wandered, I found myself back in the Godswood. Sometimes I was alone, a few times a noble or knight would be meditating (that was rare, as they were usually in the sept instead), and nearly all other times my only companion was Ghost. Once, I brought Florys, but Ghost scared the poor thing nearly to death, so I figured that getting planters for my spacious balcony would make it up to the fox.

The one I saw the least of was King Jon. I saw him every day technically, passing him in the halls or joining my father in the hall for a meal with him and the others. But the only time we ever spoke was in the Godswood. I never meant to run into him there, and I got the feeling was mutual. The first week it happened once, twice the second, three times the third, and five during the fourth week. It just sort of happened, and nearly every time he came there with Ghost or as I was playing with the direwolf.

We didn't talk much. King Jon would watch me play with Ghost, or we'd just sit in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but I felt that the King wasn't a man of many words. He was, however, sad. Tyrion told me barely anything about the King, except that he had given up a lot in his life and lost even more. Maybe that was why I only ever saw him wearing his crowd when greeting important nobles or when seated upon the colossal and imposing Iron Throne.

Towards the end of the month was the first time he happened upon me alone in the Godswood, Ghost nowhere in sight. I was reading a book, nestled in the center of the heart tree, when I felt eyes on me. I looked up to see him in the entrance closer to the Tower of the Hand. Staring at me. I kept his gaze as long as I could bear it, which was only a moment. Whenever he looked at me, I felt heat rising up my neck. King Jon's eyes were so piercing I felt like they could see straight through to my soul. Tyrion called him brooding. I would have called him sad, yes, but above all sharp. Like his mind was a blade, or he just as much a wolf as his beast.

"You're 'ere."

I didn't look back up at him and swallowed, "Yes, your Majesty."

"Tyrion calls me Jon," leaves crunching told me he was moving closer, "I'd 'ave you call me that same. These titles are not mine. They  _shouldn't_  have been mine."

That was the longest sentence he'd ever said to me. Usually, King Jon spoke short, a question here or a comment there, but was content to merely listen to my stories or talking to his direwolf. His words struck me, and I looked up in spite of my fear - was it fear? - of his eyes, "What do you mean, sire?"

"The throne belonged to Daenerys," He'd crossed the brook and stopped just short of the heart tree, raising an hand to trail along one of it's limbs. It was getting colder, even this far south, so he wore a massive cloak lined with thick fur with straps that crossed twice over his chest. It parted as King Jon reached up, "I was never meant to rule."

It was there, in his face. I knew this Daenerys to be his aunt and the late Mother of Dragons, but the look on this man's face was not that of a nephew missing his aunt. It was a man mourning a lover.

"Sometimes, the people who want the role the least are the best suited for it," I smiled sadly, looking down again at the bubbling brook. I leaned forward to run my hands in the water, distorting my reflection in the moonlight, "I mean, if someone wants a powerful role like a King and wants to rule of a land such as Westeros, wants it so badly they are willing to torture and kill for it with little regard for the people they are wanting to lord themselves over, then they cannot be the best to lead." I sighed, "The power you have as a King... it seems like such a burden. You must think so." I removed my hand and let the water settle again. I could see his reflection in it now, and watched him through it, "But I think that is what will make you such a great King."

"You 'ave been studyin'," He said, a gruff edge to his voice.

"Maester Wolkan has me starting on current events, at the behest of Tyrion," I chuckled, "My father thinks it would be more useful at the moment then older history."

"Of course he would," Jon said, "I've 'ad enough of the past effecting the present."

I stood slowly and faced him, careful to look just passed him so I didn't find myself locked in those eyes again. Though I'd only really interacted with him in the Godswood, I was finding it harder to keep eye contact with the King the more I saw him, "You may not want to hear it, and I'm sure you hear it all the time already, my King, but you are a good King. One who understands what it's like to be treated as... less than." I gestured to myself.

"Meaning?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I refer to your being raised a bastard and I, a true bastard being raised a farm hand," I laughed. The sound sort of echoed in the Godswood, reminding me of how alone the two of us were. Feeling a sudden nervousness in the pit of my stomach, I stepped around him, lightly touching the King's shoulder as I passed in what I hoped was a reassuring way, "I think that the best person to lead a country of war-weary people is to be war-weary and downtrodden yourse-"

"You don't look me in the eyes," I heard him whip around behind me and froze, "You did a bit, in the beginning. It's been well over a week since you've looked me full in the eyes, Synne. Why?"

I knew the answer, but bit my lip and said nothing. He shifted and more leaves crunched, so I took a defiant step away. Something was tensing between us, and I felt the need to run before it snapped, "Good night, milord."

"Stop," It'd only gone another step when his one word clapped irons around my wrists, "Why?"

I took a deep breath and turned my head just enough so he knew he had my attention but not enough to see his face. I was no noble, only a bastard noble-born, so lacked the wont of propriety to care, "Your eyes, Jon Targaryen, scare me."

He didn't say anything for a long moment, and I was about ready to run away again when he breathed out, low and quiet, "Scare you?"

"They are sharp, intelligent and beastly yet noble just like your direwolf's," I looked forward again and took in a deep breath, "You make me nervous, your Majest... Jon." A large part of me did want to turn then, to see the look on his face, but I held firm, "I am not used to feeling nervous around a man."

Before he could answer, before even I could think about the ramifications of what I just said, I walked - half ran, really - from the Godswood. Only at the entrance did I turn to look at him. He stood at the heart tree, and in what little I could see through the leaves and bows of the other trees, he was staring after me. Those eyes of his, looking directly at mine and stealing my breath from me.

I ran, and did not stop until I was well back in my room. Florys leaped and jumped around in that special way of hers the moment I hit the bed and startled her awake. She yipped and licked my cheek, but it did little to slow the hard thumping of my heart. I found myself repeating, as I did often, something my mother taught me.  _'When you find a man you fancy'_ , she'd say,  _'It happens quickly. But take heart, my little bird, that you don't let it swallow you completely.'_  I shed my clothes haphazardly and threw on my sleeping shift.

I would not let myself be gobbled up by the wolf.

* * *

I was still awake when footsteps creaked outside my door. They were far heavy to ever be subtle, and as I rose, my father's voice sifted through the stone walls, "Up to the top if you wish to talk, Jon."

Jon? The King was in the Tower of the Hand, late at night? Why? I battled my curiosity, remembering our meeting in the Godswood, but lost that fight and threw a nearby cloak over myself. They must have ascended quickly, because once I'd reached the door, they weren't in sight in either direction. So, seeing no guards nor servants, I ascended the stairs as well, careful to stick to the sides where they met the walls so my steps didn't creak like their's had. The next rooms were vacant, and at the very top was a large wooden door that looked reinforced. Yet it had a wide keyhole with firelight filtering out from there as well as underneath. I knelt down, feeling acutely that this was something I really should  _not_  be doing, and tried to listen.

"I expected you an hour ago, Jon," Tyrion said.

"I decided to stop at the Godswood on my way."

I didn't need to be a master manipulator to catch the cagey tone of his voice, "Oh? And would that decision have anything to do with a long, blonde haired Lannister daughter of mine?" My breath hitched, but after a long silence I heard Tyrion click his tongue, "Alright, don't tell me. I know the answer, anyway. So, what was it you came to discuss?"

"Daenerys's dragon, Drogon," Jon said, "Ever since the end of the war, both 'e and Rhaegal have slept too much and eaten too little. There's tome upon tome written both 'ere and at the Citadel on caring for dragons, and while we've managed to stabilize Rhaegal, Drogon is still... ill. It's been a week since 'e's taken food and a month since 'e's flown. I wanted to ask again if you remember anything else about how she cared for them. Something that wouldn't be written in the archives."

"Missandei and Grey Worm were with her a far longer time than I was," Tyrion was pouring something - I would bet my mother's coin purse that it was wine, "I take it they both told you nothing new either?" Jon must have shaken his head, because Tyrion sighed, "Can a dragon be depressed? I'd wager them smarter than most men, but it is a rather strange thought. Well, the obvious answer is that they miss their mother... as you miss your aunt. Though not in the same way."

"Tyrion..."

"Peace, peace Jon Snow," Tyrion said, "I meant no offense. Merely pointing out the obvious. And to answer your question, no. You've taken care of them better than even she did. Granted, you have access to more knowledge and supplies. Daenerys always had to learn as she went with those three... two now."

"There has to be  _something_ ," Jon was nearly growling in his frustration, and my heart went out to him. I wanted to help him, I really did, but what could I do against a dragon? "I won't just let her sons waste away."

"And I reckon they won't," Tyrion said. I moved back from the door as his voice got nearer, holding my breath until he moved away again, "Depressed dragons... like depressed wolves, hmm? Though, I've seen a marked improvement in  _your_ attitude the last oh... bit over a half month or so."

"Don't start with me, Tyrion," What was with that defensive tone?

My father laughed, "Of course, of course, just a bit of jest, Jon. I'll send a raven to the Citadel tomorrow and another to Meereen. It will take a time to get a response, especially across the ocean, but we haven't tried gathering information from Essos yet."

"Keep it discrete, Tyrion."

He had the good grace to sound offended, "Discrete is my most important virtue!"

"Hardly, at least in the case of women and booze."

"And that, my friend, was a low blow."

"But not a wrong one."

"True, true..."

There was a pause long enough that I started to stand to leave, already uncomfortable with eavesdropping. But then Tyrion spoke again, "You could always try that talent of Synne's on the beast. She got your direwolf wrapped around her finger easily enough."

"No," Jon said too quickly. He dropped his voice then, so I leaned in with my ear to the keyhole to hear, "Drogon is a mythic beast, a goddamn dragon, not a direwolf. There is... too many ways letting someone untrained get close to them could go wrong."

"Also true... but still something to think on," Tyrion half-mumbled and I nearly missed it. There was something pointed in his words that I didn't like, "There's only so many option left, and the last thing we need is for one of the last two dragons in the known world to starve to death on us. Or bit the heads off their handlers... again."

I paled at that. Again? Just how hard were these things to control? Given the stories, pretty difficult indeed. I left soon after as their conversation turned to other matters, my head to full of the Godswood and what I'd just heard to risk being caught. As I made a careful descent to my room and shed off my cloak, I wondered. These dragons I had not yet seen - I thought I'd heard one of them in the morning once, but when I looked out the balcony, none were there - were somehow ill, one more so than the other. But it didn't sound like they were physically ill. Like me, they had lost a mother. They may have watched her die, I didn't know. But either way, Tyrion's comments wouldn't leave my head. Sure, I was good with animals, but a dragon could hardly be considered an  _animal_. Yet try as I might, my nature pushed me to help. To see the dragons, and see if I could help them and even more... it see if it lifted some of the darkness from Jon's face.

As I fell asleep in my still too-plush bed, the seeds of a plan began to form in the back of my mind.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  Someone asked in a review, but I have no idea how to pronounce Synne. It's Norwegian and means something like "gift of the sun". The pronunciations I found online, funnily enough, literally pronounce it as "Sin"... which I find sort of hilarious and was totally intentional just now, but I guess that ties into her being a bastard, aka a 'sin' of being a child born of unmarried parents. The More You Know *insert jingle here*


	5. When You Corner an Injured Dragon

**Disclaimer:**  Do not own GoT

* * *

Chapter 4

**When You Corner an Injured Dragon**

_"People's hearts are like wild animals. They attach their selves to those that love and train them."_

_\- Ali ibn Abi Talib_

* * *

The next day, first thing in the morning at breakfast, I asked Tyrion, "Father... Could I see the dragons?"

I expected him to question why, but Tyrion only said, "I was surprised that wasn't the first thing you asked when you got the King's Landing."

"Well," I flushed and bit my lip, "I was rather overwhelmed with... Everything. How big the city was, how rich and just... Large everything in the castle looks. Even this-" I gestured to our breakfast in the Tower. Fluffy eggs with vegetables and juicy seasoned pork sausage, "-I... I well, it's just a lot to take in. Then there's the people here, either staring daggers at me, trailing my moves like Varys, or-"

"-meeting you for clandestine late night heart to hearts?"

I dropped my fork. If I was pink before, now I had to be scarlet. My face felt aflame, "Wh-what?"

Tyrion smiled then changed the topic completely, eyeing me like he knew exactly how often Jon and I stumbled across each other in the Godswood. He probably did know, "Nevermind that. Tell you what; Jon is scheduled to go see to the progress on the repairs and building of the Dragonpit. Should be about midday or so, after your morning lessons with Master Wolkan. It's just a routine inspection, so I shall ask Jon if you can come."

I clenched my hands under the table to stop from cheering. But Tyrion saw through my facade and rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. It was harder to pay attention later, when Maester Wolkan was trying to teach me geography and cartography. Most of it went far, far over my head - who cares about what an islet or archipelago were? - until a thought struck me.

"Ser, do you have maps of King's Landing and the Red Keep?" I asked, hiding my motives for the former with the genuine curiosity of the latter, "There is just so many halls and towers and corridors here that I get lost all the time. And if I ever get the courage to go to the market by myself or anything..."

"I suppose we can use the two as examples," He shuffled around in his notes and stood - I swear I heard his bones creak - to fetch the maps from a bookshelf in the small Tower library, "Most of my prepared lessons use Winterfell as examples, as that is where I was before being reassigned to King's Landing by the Archmaesters."

I raced and nearly stumbled over my skirts - another constricting Westerlands style outfit - to cut him off. Wolkan was startled as I held my hands up, "Ser, let me get them. It doesn't feel right to force an old man to reach."

"My lady-"

"Please?" I turned and scanned the shelf of maps. Thankfully they were well organized and labeled; I found King's Landing and the Red Keep easily and turned back to the Maester with a smile, "See?"

A little miffed but with an appreciative look, Wolkan turned back to the table and we progressed. I was paying attention now, trying to commit as much of the maps to memory as possible. Since I already had a penchant for getting lost in the Red Keep I should have focused on that one, but since I already knew the path from the Tower to the main entrance, that was a bit less pressing. So I focused on King's Landing, absorbing as much of Wolkan's explanations of different waterways in the city, the streets, where the hightown and lowtown sections were, and where construction was happening. He didn't know my ulterior motive for studying this map, and he didn't need to. If everything went according to my still half-baked plan, no one would ever know.

True to his word, Tyrion came up the Tower staircase just after midday. He had a grin, "Jon agreed, after some persuading."

"Really?" I was surprised. I'd hoped, but didn't think he actually would.

"Everyone else has seen them, and Rhaegal flew around a bit last month. You just missed him," Tyrion thanked Wolkan and gestured for me to follow him, "Jon doesn't really like - what were his words? - parading the dragons about for nobles to gawk at. But they always demand to see them."

I winced. Sure, I wanted to see the dragons - who wouldn't? - but I didn't want to gawk. I wanted to help.

And with that desire held close to my chest, I soon found myself in a carriage with Jon, Tyrion, and Missandei's bound for the Dragonpit. Outside were over a dozen armored men on horses forming a phalanx around us. The seven members of the Kingsguard were joined by other castle guards, and all together formed an impressive sight as we moved through the city. I shrank back in the overly plush velvet seats of the ostentatious royal carriage. The Lannister carriage couldn't hold a candle to this one, especially with the entourage.

Tyrion noticed my unease, but only raised an eyebrow and chuckled. Missandei smiled reassuringly, and Jon looked just a bit less uncomfortable than me. As if he was used to it, but still not a fan of all the pomp and attention. If the carriage that all the passerby stopped to stare at wasn't making me feel so nervous, I would have smiled. About halfway there, Jon's eyes flickered to me after another round of fidgeting. He reached up and closed the curtains on either side, giving me some much needed breathing room. I gave him a nervous but appreciative smile.

When the carriage finally stopped, I was relieved. A well dressed servant opened the door and Jon stepped out first, my father shortly after. Grey Worm, having arrived ahead of us, helped his wife out of the carriage. They looked so warmly at each other and with so much love. It was sweet.

I was last out, taking an offered hand on instinct so I didn't trip on the steep carriage steps. It was Jon, not a servant like I expected, and in my shock our eyes met. His sharp eyes held me for too long, the feeling of warmth his nearness and hand in mine brought was too powerful. I snapped my gaze to the ground and blushed deeply, mumbling my thanks and breaking away quickly to stand by my father. Both he and Missandei had odd looks on their faces, so I decided that just looking forward and passed all of them was the best plan.

The in-construction Dragonpit was gigantic, about the size of the Red Keep, though most of that was taken up by a colossal domed structure in the center with a few outcropping buildings around it. The central building looked like a colosseum, half built using the existing walls as supports. It looked far from done, but as we entered into the mega-structure through the tall archway big enough to fit a dragon, I couldn't help but be humbled by the sheer size. The Red Keep was impressive, but with all the maze-like halls and hidden alcoves, it was hard to see the sheer grandiosity of it from any angle. Yet at the Dragonpit, the imposing scale was on full display, looking equally ancient with the crumbling old walls and strong with the in-progress new ones. I noticed four large circles in the stone with handles and ropes like pit covers meant to be pulled open, and wondered where they led.

"'as Drogon eaten yet?" Jon asked as we were led down a wide incline that led underneath the Dragonpit.

Grey Worm shook his head, "I checked before you arrived, Your Majesty. He has not, and it's getting dangerous to get too close to him."

I could see pain in his face as Jon asked, "'as 'e hurt anyone?"

And again, Grey Worm shook his head, "Thankfully not yet. But he has snapped at a few of the handlers."

Jon looked over his shoulder and Tyrion and I. His eyebrows were furrowed, dark eyes sliding between us both before facing forward again and talking with Grey Worm. He looked worried and it twisted a knot in my stomach. After descending deep into the Dragonpit, we came to a cavernous antechamber with four huge double doors, each spaced a ways from each other, and two large buildings on either end. The building on the left was full of people bustling about with bales of hay, building materials, and huge racks of raw meat. I stuck close to Tyrion and Davos as we neared the double doors on the far end. Nestled at ground level in the center of the doors was another pair of smaller hinged doors, like the gates leading into King's Landing. I supposed it was to get things into the dragon's nests without opening the large doors for the beasts.

"Stay near the doors," Jon instructed, "I will go in with the handler's and check on him."

We stayed back like he said, but I wasn't happy. I needed to get a good look at the beast to see if maybe, somehow, I could do  _something_. Something to relieve the look of worry from King Jon's face. So I tampered my desire to help and hoped I looked more excited than worried as I slid just inside the room, keeping near the door like Jon wanted.

I had never seen anything like Drogon, and nothing I'd heard did the beast justice. The dragon was laying, somewhat curled in on himself, but still took up a huge amount of the chamber. At first glance, he was all hard points and angles, scales and leathery webbing. Every ridge, every line of him was covered in spikes that looked sharp enough to pierce and more dangerous than anything I'd ever seen. Everything about the dragon had hues of red; reddish, fiery tones to the webbing of his winds and down the spines that went from head to tail, and as Drogon opened his eyes and lifted his massive head, he fixed Jon with eyes of fire and a permanent grin on his razor-sharp mouth.

Yet at a second glance, as Jon eyed the beast and spoke to the feeders and handlers, I saw different. A subtle twitch in Drogon's left eye, how he favored one side when he pulled himself up and stood on his four limbs. As his eyes watched Jon, I noticed that Drogon stayed at least slightly curved, as if to slightly his right side, the one he was favoring. It brought to mind how I'd seen injured animals behave in the woods, and what would happen when someone tried to get close to them improperly. As Jon motioned for the feeders to bring in Drogon's meal, the dragon stretched up high, face upturned towards the circle in the ceiling of the nest chamber.

Now I saw what the circles in the Dragonpit were for; the dragons could be led out through the front and up the spiraling incline, or the whole ceiling could be pulled open to allow flight straight out of the pit. It was ingenious, though as a feeder was bringing in the food, they moved around one end of the room towards a huge charred divot in the stone of the chamber floor.

"No, no not that way," I murmured. The chamber was colossal, so my shocked sound was only heard by Missandei and Tyrion.

"Synne?"

Drogon's head tilted down, seeing the man and his huge rack of raw meat getting nearer and nearer to the dragon's right side. The dragon watched him first with suspicion, then outright hostility in the span of a half second.

I didn't think; I just moved. Pushed passed Missandei and took off in a sprint just as Drogon opened his mouth impossibly wide. I dipped down and launched myself at the feeder, catching him around the middle and sending us both flying into the charred divot. Fabric tore and pain exploded through me from my right leg up. I found myself in the air, held in Drogon's mouth by the fabric of my skirts, for a few seconds before the fabric tore completely and I tumbled back to the hard stone.

For a moment, I couldn't see. I couldn't hear. I wasn't even sure I remembered how to breathe until my brain restarted itself and told me that yes, I was alive. Life, which was in slow motion in those moments, kicked into overdrive as I forced myself up, first on my elbows and then to stand on adrenaline alone. Everything around me was in a flurry of dizzying movement, but I had to focus. I had to focus on the unease in the dragon's fiery eyes. Drogon snapped to one side, silencing the cacophony coming from the doorway, then turned back to me as I stood on my good leg as straight as I could. He was snarling, but unmoving, eyes flickering to ancient chain holdings around the walls that, though not in use, reminded the creature of something.

"Get up. Go to the wall behind me, and move slowly back to the door," I hissed at the feeder behind me, never taking my eyes off Drogon's. The pain hadn't caught up with me yet, though I could feel blood pouring from my leg. I fought the urge to look at it and half-shouted at the man when he didn't move, "Now!"

He scrambled up and I hissed another reminder, " _Slowly_. He needs to know where you're moving."

I didn't see how well the feeder managed it, but waited until I heard scurrying feet out the chamber door to move myself. I tested my injured leg and winced, but not once did I look away from Drogon's eyes. I fought to stay as tall and strong as I could, ignoring the calls from the door. Slowly, inch by painful inch, I limped sideways away from the charred divot and towards the door. Drogon's head tilted to keep eye contact with me, his snarl abating the further I went from his right hand side. He snapped once more, a warning, and I held up a hand, palm down and tilted slightly up. The dragon didn't snap again, merely regarding me as if to say  _'Who are you?'_  I patted my right shoulder as I neared the group at the door, and for a moment Drogon broke eye contact to tilt his head back towards the favored side. When he looked back, the dragon's eyes first widened, then narrowed a bit before he fell back on his haunches and blew flame into the divot. I didn't see him eat the forgotten meat, because in the next moment my leg finally gave out and I crumpled into a bed of fur and the smell of leather.

Jon had caught me, and in a flurry of movement the chamber was vacated and the door sealed. As if the sight of the dragon was all that kept my pain at bay, I bit back screams as it all came crashing over me like a wave. I heard Tyrion somewhere below me, shouting for the Grand Maester and a doctor to be sent for. Grey Worm as well, shouting orders that no one was to go into Drogon's chamber until further notice. Everything was a blur of movement and people, and even when I was lowered to the cold stone floor of the antechamber, Jon still kept a tight hold of my torso.

"Move, Tyrion, let me get a look at her," Grey Worm knelt on my right, nudging my father to the side. When my father protested, the soldier shot him a look, "I've seen many injuries before. The bleeding needs to be stopped  _now_ , not when a doctor arrives."

That quieted Tyrion, though he still hovered around my shoulder as he called back, "Bring the carriage here, now!" Then, a bit quieter and answering a bewildered look from Missandei, "We can't move her back to the Keep on horseback."

I tried to push myself up a bit more to see the injury, groaning in the process. Though he shuffled to accommodate me, Jon said in a gruff and worried voice right next to my ear, "Don't move to much, you'll make it worse."

If this is what it looked like now, I couldn't imagine it getting worse. My dress, a light tan piece of a more conservative Dorne style (one of the few), was torn wide open on the right side from the mid thigh down. It was missing a huge piece, probably now charred on the nesting chamber floor. Already, deep purple was coloring my legs and arms from where I hit the stone, but it was my right calf that caused bile to rise in my throat. Two long gashes, one just to the right of front and the other to the left of the back, were joined by a half dozen other smaller scrapes and cuts. I felt pale and sick when I realized that my leg had passed through Drogon's mouth in the split second before his jaw had snapped shut on the cloth of the back of my dress. Another inch either way, a second's hesitation, and I would have lost the leg. Blood ran free for a split second before Grey Worm applied pressure with a large white cloth. It shot pain up my leg and I yelled, back bowing and reaching back to grip at something, anything to lessen the pain.

Jon grunted when my hands found purchase on his fur covered shoulders, "She needs healing  _now_." I could feel his head turn, "Bring me a horse!"

"Jon, she can't go on horseback with this," Grey Worm's voice was calm and even. It was almost... lulling, in a way. Or maybe that was just the fuzziness stinging the corners of my eyes.

The fur and fabric of Jon's cloak felt so inviting. Like I could sink into it. Firmer was his chest than my bed, and I began to feel comfortable. Malleable, languid.

"She's passing out! You, apply pressure here and you, bring me more cloth!"

It was... funny. My heart was beating so fast, and I felt hot in Jon's arms. Yet at the same time, I was detached. Like I was floating somewhere far away. My head lolled to the side, cheek cushioned by somewhat rough fur. I wanted to smile, but found myself just too tired to do so. Fingers eased my head back up and I forced my eyes open - when had I closed them? - to find myself trapped in the darkest eyes I'd ever seen. Jon's eyes, the ones that made me feel so strange. But I didn't feel strange now, as one of my hands drifted to his cheek and the other fell limp at my side.

"It doesn't... hurt," I said. I must be quiet, because Jon leaned in closer and trapped me harder with his eyes. There was no lie in my words; pain had dulled away in the detached fog of my mind. I knew I was losing consciousness. I had to tell him, "Drogon, he..."

"Synne, stop talking," He said. There was a gravelly edge to his voice, a sort of panic that spoke volumes. I wondered how many times he'd held an injured person in his arms, and how many times he'd lost them.

I shook my head weakly, "He is..." I sucked in a sharp breath as the pressure on my leg increased, "... injured. Old injury, the... the wing maybe...? Something is exacerbating it... I-I dunno wh-"

"Not. Now," He hissed through clenched teeth.

I fell silent, though not from his demand. Simply speaking, the fuzziness and the fog was winning. There was more yelling and the sound of hooves, but the last thing I remembered was the feel of Jon's arms around me as I was lifted and taken away.

* * *

I woke up alone in a place I didn't recognize. My head hurt, and as I pushed myself up on my elbows, I found that wasn't the only thing. At first, I was confused, but as memories crashed down on me I gasped and threw the covers off. My leg was still there, though covered in fresh bandages. I was relieved; it had looked so bad before... at least it hadn't needed amputating.

Grand Maester Wolkan rushed into the room with who I assumed was a doctor in tow. They'd probably heard my gasp, and soon a barrage of questions and tests followed. Just as Wolkan was testing if I could stand - his arm around my shoulders so I didn't fall - a relieved Tyrion came bursting in, Jon right behind him. In shock, I stumbled, and Wolkan lowered me back to the edge of the bed.

"Synne," Tyrion was at my side in an instant, "How do you feel?"

The doctor had asked me that already, "My head hurts a bit and I feel like I just got thrown off a horse and trampled, but other than that..." I shrugged. Questions about Drogon came right to the tip of my tongue, and even though I tried to bit my lip, I couldn't help but ask, "Drogon, have you...?"

"He did eat, and while you've been out Jon ordered that one of the other nesting sites be expanded," he climbed up on the bed next to me and sighed, "It seems you were right. During one of the war battles, Bronn had... speared Drogon around his right wing joint with a special weapon designed to kill dragons." I gasped; Bronn had done this? He'd been on the other side of a war field from a dragon?! "The nesting chambers were built with smaller dragons in mind. Drogon is still growing, and the chamber he had was already too small for him to stretch out his wings fully. It exacerbated the old wound."

"Oh," I felt sorry for the beast. Strange, since it almost killed me, "And the feeder? Is he alright?"

"A few bumps and scraps, nothing major," Tyrion waved a dismissive hand, "His ego probably won't ever recover though. Was the one who told Jon Drogon was safe to feed."

"I'm glad," I smiled, "I'm glad they'll both be okay and-"

"You were nearly killed by a dragon, and all you care about is how Drogon is doing?" I twisted around to see Jon, still by the door, uncross his arms and stride around the infirmary bed. His eyes were narrowed, fists clenching and unclenching, "What you did was reckless and stupid. You're so lucky that 'e didn't take your leg off or worse!"

I gawked at the King, "What was I supposed to do? Let him get eaten?!"

"Dragons have to use fire on their food first," Tyrion pointed out. I could see him eyeing us out of the corner of my eye.

"Alright, get his head bitten off, torched,  _then_  eaten," I said, "We're both fine. Drogon is fine, you know what's wrong now. You can fix it."

"Fine?!" Jon gestured, incredulous, at my bandaged leg, "You think this is fi-?!"

"Your feeders and handlers and men from Meereen didn't know what was wrong with Drogon.  _I_  figured it out," I stood, shakily and with all my weight on my good leg. It made my head ache, fueling my frustration with this confusing monarch, "I saw Drogon reacting to that man getting too close to his right side, where the injury was, and had a split second to make a decision. No one else saw it, no one else realized it, and that man is only alive right now because I recognized that Drogon was hurt and hurt animals lash out." Though I only stood to Jon's collarbone, I looked up at him with enough defiance to make me feel a hundred feet tall, "So yes,  _Your Majesty_ , I do think it's fine that I saved a man's life so no one would have to go tell his family he got eaten by a dragon. If that mean's I have to deal with some scraps on the leg, so be it. I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Jon and I stared at each other right in the eyes, each angry with the other and equally unwilling to back down. We stood so close that the fabric of his cloak grazed my chest, but at the moment I felt no nervousness. Just a need for him to see I was right.

"You bicker like an old married couple," Tyrion muttered. My head snapped to him just in time to see my father roll his eyes and slide off the bed, "Synne, Jon is right. What you did was really stupid."

"Father-!"

"Stupid, but necessary," he leaned back and crossed his arms, eyes on Jon now, "You are right that what she did was reckless, but you also can't deny that she saved a man's life, that we now know what's wrong with  _Daenerys's_  son, and that - stupid as she was - Synne will be fine once the gashes heal."

Jon looked between us both, back and forth a half dozen times before gritting his teeth. He rounded on the doctor, who jumped from the strength of the King's radiating anger, "She gets every accommodation. She is not to move from bed, walk, or do anything strenuous without at least two present until her leg is healed."

"Jon-!"

He turned the full force of his eyes on me and I froze, words dying on my lips. For a moment, his gaze softened and I thought I could see just how worried he was. But then it was gone, so quick that I probably imagined it, and Jon stormed from the room. I jumped from the door slamming shut behind him.

After a long, pregnant pause, Tyrion said, "You realize that you're in a lot of trouble, right?"

I winced and turned back to the door. Something felt cold in me, something tied to the worry in Jon's eyes he was trying to desperately to hide. I'd scared him, and that realization made me feel sick. I would never change what I'd done, and given the chance would have done it again, but still.

It was a long time before I saw Jon in the Godswood again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So this fanfic is blowing up more than any of my others have... um... so I'mma do something I haven't before I reply to some comments here. Because why not? Now, this fanfic is cross posted to both the SoIaF and GoT sections (because they're separate for some silly reason), so it'll be reviews from both sides

 


	6. The Land of Snow

**Disclaimer:**  I do not own GOT.

* * *

Chapter Five

**The Land of Snow**

_"The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches."_

_\- E.E. Cummings_

* * *

The Godswood became strangely lonely over the next month. I went, every night, hoping to see Jon. But the only one who was ever there was Ghost. The direwolf and I spent hours in companionable silence. I patted his fur, he stood protectively over me as I read. However, as per Jon's orders, the only times I was alone was when I snuck out at night after the first few weeks. It took about another week before I could walk effectively on my own, and another before I could be quiet enough to even get to the Godswood without anyone finding me but the guards at the entrance to the tower. They only watched me enter, and never tried to stop me, yet would if it looked like I was going anywhere else. I assumed it was under my father's instructions.

I knew I was right to do what I did, but now... I was lonely. I had Tyrion and Nan and Lisette, and sometimes Bronn and Missandei between their duties, but they weren't the late night comfortable silences I would have with the King. Tyrion told me that Drogon was doing better, though they fed him much more carefully until one of the other chambers was cleared and enlarged for him. It would take a while, and moving him would be difficult.

"Tyrion won't let me help Drogon," I leaned back against the trunks of the heart tree, "Well, I mean, he knows Jon won't let me. I think I can, though." I looked down at Ghost, who eyed me for a moment before going back to chewing on a bit of grass, "Everyone's assuming he won't attack Jon because Jon's handled him before and because of his aunt, but I'm not so sure. He could get hurt."

Ghost nudged at my bandaged leg, and I chuckled, "Yeah, I know. Pot calling the kettle black, I guess."

I shouldn't want to help so much, not when the beast had nearly killed me. But I remembered the look on Jon's face when he mentioned Daenerys. The sadness and longing held there, the lingering anger and want. I wanted to fix that. I wanted to see him smile.

I gasped, dropping the book I'd been idly reading. My hand flew to my mouth, covering it as the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to see Jon happy. He was, from what I'd seen, such a good and true man. But it was deeper than that, deeper than just a desire to see a friend happy. It was selfish, but nestled deep in my chest and in tandem with my usual overbearing desire to help was a want to see him smile  _for me_.

He was a beautiful man. I'd never seen one more aesthetically pleasing. Yet I knew that I didn't love him, not yet. But I felt for him. I felt for him deeply, and not as a friend should. His eyes always made me nervous, but now without them I just felt lost.

I didn't return to the Godswood the next night, or any night thereafter. I studied with Nan, learned sewing from Lisette, played with Florys, and had talks with Tyrion about my mother. But I didn't leave the Tower much over the next week, trying to wade through the myriad of emotions this revelation caused. I, a bastard, could not have any sort of romantic feelings for the King of Westeros. I could not. I  _would_  not.

"You look deep in thought about something," I jumped, swerving around and clutching the stone of my balcony with one hand. Tyrion stood just passed my bed, staring at me with a knowing grin.

I glared at him, "It's nothing, Father."

"If you say so," His words were just a touch too breezy. It made me a bit nervous, "I came to tell you; we're going on a little trip."

That startled me, "T-trip?" I hadn't left King's Landing in a little over two months. There was still so much to learn and to see - not to mention figuring out how to help Drogon and talk to Jon again - that I wasn't sure I was really ready to go anywhere else.

"Jon goes North, to Winterfell, once a year," Tyrion stepped out on the balcony, wincing when the sun hit his eyes, "To see the repairs to Castle Black and what parts of the wall it is possible to repair without giants and to the rest of the North. And-" He smiled, almost fondly and with something like sadness - not for himself, but on behalf of another, "-I suspect to pay his respects to his father - technically uncle - brothers and the rest. I know Sansa misses him and Arya."

"Sansa? Sansa Stark?" I blinked. Something Wolkan taught me during recent history lessons came to mind, "... weren't you two married?"

"Technically we were," He shrugged, "It was never consummated however, and later, well... You'll find that out when you get to the Battle of the Bastards section of your lessons."

"Oh... okay," I turned back to stare out over King's Landing. It was bright out, and a little chilly. I wasn't wearing a cloak, and my arms were bare in a draping Dornish dress. Lisette had done my wavy hair half up with braids, leaving plenty to float in the wind.

He chuckled a bit, saddled up beside me on the balcony, "You look so serious. Won't ask what you're thinking; I know you won't tell me, but-" I looked down at Tyrion to find him staring, "-you remind me of Daenerys, looking like that." My eyes widened and he laughed again, "You both are very different. Just in the looks at the moment. At least you don't look like my sister."

There was a lot of hatred for Cersei Lannister in the walls of the Red Keep, and from what Wolkan was teaching, it was deserved. Even though I would never meet the dead Dragon Queen, I was glad I looked more like her than my aunt. I smiled, "I thought I looked like Myrcella Baratheon?"

"One can look like multiple people, depending on demeanor and how they're made up," Tyrion shuffled his way back inside and I followed, tossing another look at the city to see the green-tinted Rhaegal flying over the mountains just outside the city walls. I hadn't seen Jon's preferred steed in person yet, only as a pinprick in the skyline, but the sight of the beast still made me shiver with memories of his brother's attack.

Tyrion's words drew me back, "Your hair is lighter than Myrcella's; it's more like mine." He ran a hand through his hair, a blonde so light it was almost whitish, "At least you didn't inherit my eyes."

"I think your eyes are plenty handsome, Father," I said, rolling my eyes. I'd never met someone with mismatched eyes before; I wished I'd gotten them as well as my hair.

"Wasted on a dwarf, then," His laugh held an edge, a bit more biting than he meant it. Tyrion stopped just passed the bed, "Don't worry about packing anything. Lisette and Nan will see to that."

Oh right. The trip. I shifted uncomfortably, "Wh-what about my lessons? And how're we to travel all the way to Winterfell?"

"Maester Samwell Tarly will be quite adept at teaching you while we're there," he shrugged, "It'll take a month to get there, same as it did to get here from Dorne. I ordered some winter clothes for you, since it's really  _fucking cold up there_." Tyrion shivered visibly and stood a bit straighter, "We're leaving tomorrow in the royal carriage with a full accompaniment of men. Jon wanted to travel lighter, but Varys and I talked him out of it." His face darkened, "Some people need reminding just who their King is."

I noted the look but didn't say anything on it, "Who's going?"

"Myself, which is why you're going. I can't well leave my daughter behind to miss the  _wonderful_  North," He shot me a look that spoke volumes. I got that Tyrion didn't much like the cold, "Jon, of course. The Kingsguard, including Davos. His sister Arya."

"What about Missandei?" I hoped the foreign woman would be there. She was supportive, and nice to me.

"She likes the North even less than I do. Too much snow, now that winter's come," Tyrion said, "Her and Grey Worm are to stay and maintain King's Landing along with Varys. The dragon's tolerate them a lot more than anyone else, sans Jon and myself - and you - so they run the Dragonpit when we're gone."

"You think the dragon's... tolerate me?" I blinked, "I've only met one!"

"And the beast didn't strike you even when you got close to him."

I gestured to my leg underneath the dress. It wasn't bandaged anymore, but it was heavily scarred. He shot me another look, "Don't give me that; the snap was for the feeder, not you, and you know it. The only one's I've ever seen calm a dragon down so quickly were Jon, Daenerys, and myself."

"Then it's your blood in me, I guess."

He laughed almost conspiratorially, like he was laughing as some hidden joke, "Aye, might be a part of it."

* * *

True to Tyrion's word, the next day I was shuffled into a larger and even grander carriage than the one we took to the Dragonpit. It was less carriage and more cabin, with seats around three sides so large, plush, and covered with blankets and pillows that I didn't even have to guess their purpose; bed for the royal family while travelling, as well as seats during. The cavernous nature of the carriage and all the gilding and silk adorning it was almost suffocating, especially when the only one to get into the carriage with me was Arya. The others, even my father, started the journey on horseback with an entire cadre of soldiers.

Arya was silent for the first few days of our journey. I could always feel her attention on me, even though her eyes never were. Even as the countryside drew her gaze, it was like she had eyes on the back of her head that never left me.

She unnerved me. She spoke with Jon occasionally - who only glanced at me, but never spoke - and even my father. Arya didn't like Tyrion, but neither did she dislike him. She was weary, of everything and everyone, save for her brother the King.

I was jealous, of their relationship. Not for the obvious reason, either. I never had siblings, and though I now had a father, it wasn't like I'd ever had something resembling a full family. I never met my grandparents, cousins, never got to hide under protective brotherly arms like Averill with Braddeck. It was only ever Mother and I.

A week into our journey, Arya spoke to me. I was trying to embroider a wolf on a cushion using stitches Nan taught me. It looked like a malformed rat.

"Jon stares at you a lot," I jumped, not expecting her words. Her pitch black eyes bore right into me, razor sharp and cold.

I looked away at once, smiling bitterly, "He's angry at me. Because I saved the feeder."

"You should have let him die," my head snapped up; her gaze was back out the window, "People who make stupid decisions die."

I laughed, "If that was true, everyone in the world would be dead."

She didn't reply, and with a wash of cold and the sight of an upturn to her lips, I got that she was agreeing with my joke. But in a way like she would relish in it. In a world of death.

That was when I noticed Arya's blade. Usually, she sat on the opposite end if the carriage from me, and I hadn't thought anything when she sat closer that morning. But as I felt the tap and looked down, all air wooshed from me.

A long, thin blade rested gently on my hip.

"I had a list, once," she said, as calm and collected like one would discuss the weather, "Every single person on that list is dead. I even fed one of them his own children." I was sweating, eyes wide. In a single flick of the wrist, she could disembowel me, "I did it all for myself and my family. And I would do it a thousand times over. Would you?"

I blinked, breath shallow and mouth dry. Her blade dug in tighter and stung at my hip, "I-I've never killed nobody."

"Would you?" Arya leaned forward slightly. There was something dangerous in her eyes, a wild glint of an animal kept caged too long, "Would you hunt me down, if I took someone you loved? Would you do anything to protect them, avenge them?"

"If you...?" My eyes widened. I'd never considered killing anyone. But this girl, younger than I, had the exact eyes I'd imagined a killer would have. When I didn't answer, she tapped my hip with the sword. I swallowed thickly, knowing from her probing eyes that lying wasn't an option, "I would want... To protect them. I-I would stop you from killing th-"

"That's not what I asked," Arya said, "If I killed, say, Tyrion Lannister." Her eyes flashed and I froze. She smiled a bit, a weird quirk of the lips that creased her grim face, "Would you kill me back?"

"Yes," she leaned back a bit, and the blade was gone. But then her gaze shot back to me when I added, "Unless you had a really, really good reason."

"Oh? And what kind of reason would that be?"

"Are you going to hurt my father, Arya?" It was easier to be bold when a blade wasn't pressed against oneself.

"There's no one on my list at the moment, so no," she looked back out the window for a moment, eyes searching.

Arya shot me a look when I didn't say anything. I gulped, "I-If he'd done something. L-like, killed your family or-or something like that, then... wouldn't it be justice?"

"So you'd want to protect those you love, but if they were rotten, twisted things on the inside, you wouldn't be against disposing of them?"

"That's a... callous way of putting it."

She shrugged, "It's a better worldview than one where those in power rule like tyrants because the people who cared more about themselves and said tyrants did nothing."

"But your brother's the one in power," I flinched when her eyes snapped to mine, "Even though he doesn't want to be."

"So you'd support Jon? Not everyone's happy he has the throne. And besides, him not wanting it is the best reason for him to have it."

I shot up, immediately gripping at the roof of the carriage so I didn't tumble on my still tender leg, "Of course I would!"

She regarded me for a long time in silence. I wanted to bolt from the carriage, but it was still in motion. That would not be a good plan if I wanted to stay in trampled. Then Arya looked away, face impassive yet oddly satisfied. This time, it was I who purposefully sat as far from her in the carriage as possible.

* * *

I slipstitched the hole in my dress closed before anyone else went into the cabin. Arya didn't speak much, but still more than before. It would have been comfortable, conversing with the dark-haired woman, if she didn't scare me so much. After that day, I convinced Tyrion to let Florys out of her travelling cage and stay with us in the carriage. Even though I got the weird feeling that Arya liked me, somehow, I didn't want to be alone with her again.

Halfway through the journey, the weather started to get colder. Tyrion travelled in the carriage with us then, though Jon refused. It made sense; out of everyone here, he was most used to the cold. Born in King's Landing, but raised most of his life in the North.

A few days later, I saw my first snow. We'd passed into the North already, and the whiteness blanketed everything. We were all bundled in furs now, but I couldn't tear my eyes from it. A giddy bubble grew in me despite the winter chill. I'd never seen snow.

So I broke a few days later, as we neared Winterfell. We'd stopped for the night at a small innaybe another day or two from Winterfell. As the men dealt with the horses and carriages and we were ushered into the warmth inside, I slipped away. Arya saw me with her unnervingly cold eyes, but didn't start a word as I slipped out the door, lost in the jostle of tavern folk as they left. It was precautionary, for the inn to clear in the event of the King's stay.

The cold nipped at my exposed face as I snuck outside. We hardly stopped once we'd gotten this far north, either because of the weather or Jon's desire to reach Winterfell as soon as possible. But now I could really savor how the snow crunched under my feet, how flecks of it tickled at my hair and eyelashes.

I was bundled up in layer after layer, so thick with cloaks that I hardly felt the chill. Yet as I walked through the small town and watched the breeze kick up drifts of white powder through the far off pine trees, I found myself smiling. The cold was such that my face hurt, yet it was... pleasant. Pretty, snow twinkling whenever the sun managed to peek through the clouds. I wanted to see more of the North.

"What're you doing out here?"

I jumped, warm blood rushing to my frozen face, and turned to see Jon outside the inn stables with a number of the Kingsguard. Looks like I'd wandered back towards the inn. His eyes were narrowed, and I fought against the effect they had on me. I shrugged and turned away, "I haven't had a chance to enjoy the snow."

Jon stared at me a moment before dismissing the others. Sir Davos refused to leave his side, as usual, "It's just snow, and it gets everywhere. Now get inside."

I bristled at his command, and nearly made a fool comeback when Davos added, "Arya said you'd left. Ain't good for a pretty girl to wander about unguarded, even in the North."

"I can take care of myself, ser," I drew my cloak in tighter as another breeze swept by.

"I don't doubt that," he said, "But you're a bastard of Dorne. This-" he gestured to the wilderness of snowcapped mountains and forests at the edge of town, "-is no desert dunes."

"I want to see more of it," I didn't keep the awe from my voice, "It's... beautiful here, Sir Davos. I like it."

"You'll see quite a lot of snow in Winterfell," He smiled. It crinkled the corners of his mouth in a grandfatherly way, "And greenery. Even the Winter has yet to touch the glass gardens."

"Glass... Gardens?" Standing outside, now unmoving, made me feel the cold keenly. Jon saw my approach and disappeared inside first, and Davos led me in after, "I'd heard of them...how do they stay warm?"

"Hotsprings under the castle," Jon muttered, barely audible as we entered the tavern, now full of his soldiers and servants, "Some of them  _are_  snowed in now, Davos."

"Is there... I mean, I heard that..." I gulped. Jon took point as we headed upstairs. He didn't look back at me once, "There's a weirwood in Winterfell, right? A real one."

"Aye."

A broad smile broke across my face. A real weirwood tree, face carved by the Children themselves. Mother used to tell me stories of the Children of the Forest. Their magic, their whimsy, the ancient battles and how the weirwood carvings were largely all that was left of them.

Jon disappeared in one door without a word. Davos sighed and led me onward to mine and Arya's room - as the only noble-born women in the caravan, we were to share - yet I couldn't help but look back at where Jon had gone.

"You know Jon very well, right Ser Davos?" I asked, then paused before turning to the knight, "He's... still mad at me, isn't he?"

"Mad?" Davos chuckled and it shocked me, "No, Lady Synne-"

"I am not a Lady," I corrected.

Davos simply raised an eyebrow and went on, "His Grace's issue with you is much more deep rooted than that, but suffice it to say... You scare the living daylights outta the King, lass."

"S-scare him?!" I stopped in the middle of the hall, startled. Jon was such a larger-than-life man. Strong, confident, but also somehow both warm and cold, content and sad. How could such a man be frightened of little me?

"Aye, you scare him," Davos smiled, gesturing for me to keep going, "I have an inkling why, but won't betray Jon's confidence to say. Now-" he stopped outside a door, "-here you are, Lady Synne. I'll see you in the morning."

I entered and the leader of the Kingsguard was gone. Arya was nowhere to be seen, likely off doing... whatever it was that frightening women like her did. I shuttered and took a spot at the window, near a roaring fire. While my front and right side were cold from the ice-frosted glass, the fire burned at my backside. I wanted to figure out this man, the King of my country. I wanted to know Jon Targaryen - I chuckled under my breath, remembering a conversation with my father from what seemed like a lifetime ago - Jon  _Snow_.

I remembered my mother's warnings. They'd seemed so distant at the time, so unlikely, but now I could recall her words as clear as if she stood next to me now.

 _"A man's going to intrigue you someday, my gem,"_ Tysha had said,  _"You'll want to know him. What made him how he is, why he acts around you and others the way he does. You'll want to know him, but take heart my love."_

 _"I'll never want a man, mother!"_  I'd been a child. So naive then.

She'd laughed,  _"You will, Synne, you will. But never forget who you are. Never forget how you were brought into this world. There's people in the world that are so miserable that they would ruin the happiness of yourself and others just to give their own twisted hearts joy. There's vipers around every corner, Synne. Take heart not to fall under the spell of a man who cannot, or will not protect you. Not unless you can protect yourself. And be doubly sure not to bed a man who will not wed you, or whose family do not want him to wed you."_

Jon seemed the type to go out of his way to protect anyone and anything around him, even at the cost of himself. As noble as that seemed, that also meant he was easily stretched thin. The kind of man who would attempt to protect everyone, and in the process protect no one. I knew I could protect myself. I know I could protect my mind from the effect Jon Snow had on it.

I knew this, yet as I looked out across the sea of white, I hesitated.

* * *

The castle at Winterfell was a wondrous sight. Unlike the mountains and forests and ocean that marked King's Landing, Winterfell was more open. Sprawling fields mostly barren of trees stretched all around it, broken by the odd soft hills and brush. Yet, dusted so thoroughly with snow as it was, the dark blackish stones of the city and their snow-capped roofs stood out like nothing I'd ever seen. Like a black jewel, half hidden in a sea of the purest white.

Our caravan of finery and soldiers passed through the spacious archway of the frozen castle. Before I flung myself back in the carriage, stomach all in knots, I saw dozens of Northern nobles and servants and peasants and soldiers all lined up in greeting. Tyrion shot me a lopsided grin as I started to fidget, and Arya looked as impassive as ever. We were in the cabin with a few servants from the following carriage. Tyrion said it was to keep up appearances when we stepped out. I thought it was superfluous; this was Jon's family, after all.

A short knock at the door sent the servants into action. One opened it and left, the two others close behind. Arya was out first, so quick she was nearly a blur, and didn't take any of the offered help. Then Tyrion, who waited for me at the bottom of the steps. I hesitated inside the royal carriage, all nervous flutters and misty cold breath. Tyrion held out his hand to me, and I swallowed thickly before taking it.

Outside it was even colder than the village from yesterday. It bit at my cheeks, numbed my nose and ears, and every breath brought a thick mist about my face. Ahead, Jon was speaking to a tall, proud woman with a straight back and a cold face. She was beautiful, with red hair and light eyes, but in that statuesque sort of way. She cracked a small smile, and it looked almost painful for her, before a just slightly warmer one broke and she embraced Jon.

"Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North," Tyrion muttered without looking at me.

I blinked. That didn't sound right; according to Wolkan's lessons, titles and land passed to the sons before any daughter's, as chaffing as that was. I didn't saw anything, and my eyes followed Jon as he knelt in front of a man, much younger than us, in a wheeled chair covered in furs. I got nothing from the teen. His face was both blank and wise, neither warm nor cold.

"Bran Stark. He's crippled from the waist down, but don't let that fool you," Tyrion stopped about halfway between the carriage and where Jon greeted his siblings with Arya, "He's... strange. Keep your distance, Synne. The boy, he knows things. He'll know everything you've done in your life with a mere look."

I wanted to say it was impossible, but as Jon stood to listen to something the Lady Sansa said, Bran Stark's eyes looked straight passed all else to bore into me. He seldom blinked, and not once did his face betray anything. Jon's eyes made me feel things I'd never felt. Arya's scared me, and Sansa's were cold.

Yet it was Bran Stark's eyes that broke me.

Something welled up in my chest. He was reading me, like a book, and never once did a single emotion, a single twitch, cross his face. I didn't want it, this penetrating stare, yet an even stronger force than Jon's kept my eyes in his gaze. I could not breathe, I could not speak, and I could not fight him.

Bran spoke in a monotone, soft yet somehow carrying to us in a way neither Jon nor Sansa's did, "You are Synne Sand, bastard daughter of Tyrion Lannister."

It was not a question; he just knew it. I swallowed thickly, and nodded. Jon and Sansa both looked between us as Bran never moved his eyes from mine. Finally, Jon waved us over.

"Lady Synne, this is my sister Sansa, brother Bran and his wife Meera," Jon motioned to his siblings and a fur-clad woman behind Bran's chair. I hadn't noticed her with the presence Bran commanded, but she was a stout, strong sort of woman with a kind face.

Tyrion nudged me. I yelped and finally managed to tear my eyes from Bran to bow, "Hello. I-I mean, it is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark, Lord Stark. And..." I gulped and my voice dropped low, so only the Starks and my father could catch it, "Your Grace, I am no lady."

Jon stared at me for a long moment, eyes a bit wide before narrowing. But I could see the hints of a grin on his lips as he turned to Sansa, "We've a lot to catch up on, Sansa."

"Yes..." Sansa raised an eyebrow a me before realization crossed her face. I knew that look, it was almost the same one I caught various nobles and servants shooting me at the Red Keep, when they realized who I was. Yet unlike their thinly veiled disgust, Sansa's expression softened.

She took Jon's offered arm, and using it as a cue, people began to file out of the courtyard. Bran was steered away and Tyrion nudged me forward. I looked back for Florys only to see her - in her traveling cage - being taken out of the carriage.

"Shouldn't we get our things?"

"The servants and a couple soldiers take care of those," Tyrion murmured, so low I almost didn't catch it. There was a smile in his tone, "Your fox will be fine."

I still wasn't quite comfortable with that. Just like when I'd arrived at the Red Keep, I wasn't to take my own things to my room. They would be unpacked and put away before I'd even had a chance to see where I'd be staying, "Aren't you worried about someone going through your stuff, Father?"

"That's why you keep what's most important on you at all times," Tyrion shrugged.

He then sped us along, as we'd grown distant from Jon and his family. We kept close to them, myself a step or two behind my Lord Father as Wolkan had taught me. Tyrion shot me a look once, just before entering a large dining room. I knew he didn't like displays of my bastard nature, but at least he respected my refusal in being legitimized. There were many reasons why I refused, some logical some less so, but the largest was... that I didn't want to disgrace my mother. Mother raised me on her own. I was never meant to be a Lannister.

Jon and Sansa did most of the talking; about how they were doing, the state of the North, progress on the wall. Evidently it was difficult to build it without giants, though there was little point now, with the Night King gone. We were largely alone in the hall, and soon retired to a smaller sitting area. Bran had excused himself with his wife, leaving only Sansa, Jon, Tyrion, Davos, and I. It was in the sitting area that I noticed how strangely warm Winterfell was. While the outside was a biting cold, in here it was nearly as warm as the average day in King's Landing. I remembered Wolkan's lessons, about the hotsprings underneath the castle. While the Great Hall had a lessened benefit, I was quite comfortable in the plush chairs near a roaring fire. I could almost forget the cold outside.

Servants brought wine, bread, and cheese. I thanked them with a smile. Once they left, Sansa addressed me for the first time, "Jon tells me you were bitten by one of the dragons. While saving a servant."

It took all my restraint not to jump. The cold woman raised an eyebrow as I stammered, "I-It was hardly a bite, my Lady. Drogon's teeth just grazed me."

"I've seen the dragons before," She said, eyes sliding from me to Jon, "If they want something dead, it dies."

"I... suppose, my Lady-"

"Sansa," There was a smile on her icy face now. It warmed it surer than any fire, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of another woman in her eyes. A kinder one, shielded from the horrors of life, "We are among friends here; call me Sansa and I shall call you Synne."

"M-my Lady-"

"It's a lost cause, Sansa," Jon murmured. He'd been watching us, leaning deep in his chair and sipping a glass of dark wine. His eyes twinkled, and his gaze stole my breath, "I've yet to get her to call me Jon to my face more than a handful of times."

"Oh, it wouldn't be so hard between us women, brother," Sansa shook her head. There was a brighter smile, the kind I'd bet my mother's blood-stained coin that Sansa Stark only used for her family.

It wasn't long after that we went our separate ways. Arya left with Sansa, to where I didn't ask, and the rest joined a contingent of guards outside the warm sitting room. We went for a large wing of the inner castle; it seemed that the whole section was cordoned off just for Jon, the Kingsguard, Tyrion, and I (along with the servants we'd brought with us). A mousey woman, small and thin like me, led me to my chambers. She was young enough to be Lisette's little sister, and looked like her too (albeit darker in hair and lighter in skin).

"My Lady, I am Bridget, Lady Sansa has asked that I attend you during your stay in Winterfell," She bowed low a few moments after we'd separated from the others, "My Lady believes that you would do well with a Northern's touch while here, than with the King's Landing servants."

"Is there a difference?"

She looked almost offended, "Of course! A King's Landing servant would not know where the gardens are, the baths, how to dress yourself for the weather, where the kitchens are and the stables and-"

I held up both hands and laughed, "I see. Sorry, didn't mean to offend." I looked down the hard stone walls. Everything looked either much lighter, or much darker, than King's Landing. Black and white, ice when I crossed a window and fire from the hotsprings below. I sighed, "I'm not used to being more than a farm hand."

"That must have been dreadful," Bridget opened a door and ushered me inside.

I bristled, "It was life, and it was good and honest."

Now it was her turn to look bashful, "I-I apologize, I meant no-"

"It's fine," I waved a hand, moving passed her to get a good look at the room. I was getting used to the subtle - usually unintentional - digs against my upbringing.

The room was just a bit smaller than the one I had in the Tower of the Hand. There was no balcony, though a large window peered down into a large section of the main courtyard that was peppered with practice dummies for sword and archery. The whole space was decked out in Lannister colors, likely ahead of our arrival, and my trunk was empty against the far wall. I was right; they had unpacked all my things before I even got to my room.

Florys whined from her cage and I hurried to let her out. The poor thing shot out like a bat out of hell, scurrying around the room as Bridget gave a very unladylike squeal. I laughed from the belly. As the fox came to an abrupt stop and looked up at me with an adorable tilt to her head, Bridget asked, "What... is that...?"

"A fennec fox," I scooped up said animal and carried her to the bed, scratching behind her ears, "They're common in Dorne."

"I... see."

"I take care of her, so no worries about needing to get fresh bedding or anything," I said. It was a compromise. Florys was  _my_  pet, so  _I_  would take care of her, access to servants or not.

Bridget left soon after seeing that I was settled to check on things for tomorrow. And it wasn't long after that the fatigue of travelling for so long began to overtake me. So I set Florys down and brushed out my long hair, throwing it in a lazy braid before setting about for bed. Yet it took a long while to fall asleep, even with Florys curled on top of the covers next to me. For once, it wasn't Jon's hypnotic gaze that kept me up.

It was the pointed tip of Arya's blade. The haunting eyes of Bran Stark. And the swirling, terrifying, beautiful snow that coated this place like the sands of Dorne.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  I'm back in college classes, y'all, so updates are going to be much more infrequent! Sorry about that :)


	7. Want

**Disclaimer:**  Don't own anything GOT related.

* * *

Chapter Six

**Want**

_"Sometimes I think the difference between what we want and what we're afraid of is about the width of an eyelash."_

_\- Jay McInerney_

* * *

There wasn't much for me to do the first couple days in Winterfell. Maester Samwell Tarly would be returning from the Gift by the end of the week. When I asked why Winterfell's Maester was so intimately caught up in the restorations of the Wall and the the Night's Watch, Tyrion told me that Maester Tarly once was a brother, just as Jon had been. So, in addition to his duties as Maester, he helped Sansa and the Night's Watch oversee the reconstruction on the Wall, and to a lesser extent the rebuilding of the North.

My lack of lessons meant that I was left to my own devices. And that meant that, quite often, I was running into Bran. He never said much, because I always excused myself as quickly as possible. I could tolerate Arya's thinly veiled threats - that seemed more and more like jests with every day - much better than Bran's quiet, intelligent staring. Of all the siblings, I enjoyed Sansa the most. She had a regal, queenly look about her, and though she didn't smile much and always had this sullenness about her that seemed normal for a Stark - if the other's were any indication - she was a wonderful hostess. Even attempted to correct my abysmal stitching as we lounged on the second day, when she was done with meetings with her brother and various Northern nobles.

Yet I couldn't avoid Bran Stark all the time.

"You are fond of books, though you are still learning to read well."

I nearly screamed, launching myself away from the bookshelf and swinging around, hand clenching at my chest. Bran was alone, which was common. How a crippled teen could move so silently, I had no idea. I tried to gather my wits and bowed clumsily, "My lord."

"I am Lord only because my sister and those current Lords of the North insist on calling me so," Bran wheeled himself into the room proper. I backed away; his chair was nearly silent. Whoever designed it, and took care of the parts, was a master.

"What are you then, if you're not a Lord?" I eyed him as Bran stopped next to a small table on which a candle burned.

He stared at me with that same empty, blank look, "I would ask you to sit, if I didn't already know you would not. You are afraid of me."

I froze and bit my lip, turning away from the Stark boy, mumbling excuses as I faltered under his gaze, "I-I need to go. I h-have studying to d-do before Maester Tarly gets here, and-"

Before I could even make three strides to the door, Bran said in a voice low yet still clear as day, "You will want to know him. What made him how he is, why he acts around you and others the way he does." My breath caught as I stood straight as a board and slowly twisted my head to stare at him, "You'll want to know him."

"How...?" My voice was high, almost whimpering, as I slid down a nearby bookshelf and fell to the cold stone. This library was on an upper floor of the castle, further from the warming hot springs.

"Your mother wanted you to be wary of men, and of their intentions," Bran said, still with that infuriating blank tone, "And you, with all her stories, wondered if you were actually a noble man's bastard, or one of the other men who took her."

I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. Never, in my whole life, did I once speak that fear to anyone. Not even my mother knew that doubt. She and Tyrion had known each other so short a time. And her assaults were so thorough, so varied.

Then, Bran spoke simply, no smile or emotion, "You are the blood daughter of Tyrion Lannister."

"How... how do you  _know_  that?" I managed to choke out the words, but only just through the tightening of my chest, "How does  _anyone_  know for sure?"

"For two weeks, your parents were married, but they were lovers from the day they met, which was not much longer..." Bran trailed off for a moment, eyes unfocused, "... The night was clear, when Tysha thought she was going to tell your father the good news. She had become nauseous, and seen a woods witch. She was wearing a yellow dress, a Dornish piece Tyrion gave her two days before. But when she reached his room, she found only Tywin's guards." Then his eyes focused back on me, "You were conceived the first night."

I crawled up the nearby bookshelf, eyes wide and unblinking. That was more detail than mother ever told me about her time with Tyrion, "Th-that's impossible. You  _can't_  know that."

"I can see everything," Bran said, "Things that have happened, things that are current, and the possibilities of the future."

"You-you're lying!" I clutched at the bookshelf, white knuckled, and nearly shouted at the boy.

"You and your mother fled the brothel she worked at because Reginald Lannister found out about you and was ordered by Tywin to rape and kill you," He just kept going and going, never hinting at emotion as every word thrust daggers in my chest, "You wore a white chemise. Tysha stopped him before he got far. You live on the streets, wandering Dorne until the Eddars caught your mother breaking into their barn looking for food. They showed kindness and employed her."

He knew. By the old gods and the new, he  _knew,_  "Please, my Lord-"

"Reginald Lannister reported you dead to Tywin, and that he killed Tysha in the scuffle, to save face."

I shouted at the crippled Stark, "I know! I know all this! Why are you... who the hell are you, bringing all this up now?! How do you know?!"

He said nothing for the longest time, merely staring as I heaved breaths. It felt like I'd run a marathon, my heart beating a staccato rhythm and my eyes blown wide. Then, when my panicked breathing was the only music in the room for over a minute, Bran spoke, "Because I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I am not Lord Stark. I am a greenseer, and I see everything." Then, as the words sank in and only confused me further, his head tilted. Bran's expression, usually blank and empty, almost looked... compassionate, sorrowful somehow, "I see you, Synne Sand. And I see that you feel deeply for Jon Snow."

I couldn't take it anymore; not his piercing eyes, not his all-knowing tone, not the knew tone of understanding he had. I bolted from the library, his gaze boring holes in my back. Down the cold hall, flying down steps two at a time. I saw none of my father's men, nor Jon's, yet a few dark-haired Northerners stared as I ran passed. I didn't know where I was going, but knew that I wanted to put as much room as I possibly could between myself and the Stark that knew too much. Even the slight limp I still had from my injury didn't stop me.

Bran was so much worse than Arya. So very much worse.

The cold air tore violently against me. Only then did I slow, first to a jog and then to my knees. The blindingly white snow crunched beneath my legs and covered my fingers as I clenched them. I felt hard roots against my fingers, then eyes. As my head snapped up, I came face to face with a face, etched deep in the white bark of the crimson-leaved tree. Streaks of color, as red as blood, flowed from the eyes of the carving. It was then that I realized where I must be.

Under the bower of Winterfell's weirwood tree, within the ancient Godswood.

"...Synne?"

I gasped and leaped back in shock, scooting away from the tree and the voice. At first, a wild part of me thought it came from the tree. But then, as I stared at the white and the red, Jon moved around from the opposite side. He stood stark against the white of the tree, the snow, the pale skies above. I wanted to blink and rub my eyes, the contrasting of his black clothes and hair so harsh against the snow that it almost hurt. Or maybe it was the shock of his brother still lingering inside me.

He walked slow and with purpose, kneeling next to me with a soft and worried expression, "Synne, are you alright?"

"I-I um..." I stammered, scooting away from the warmth of him and the feelings his dark eyes stirred in my chest, "Y-your brother, he... well, he..."

Jon's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he sighed and gave a small, lopsided smile, "Bran told you something, didn't 'e? Things 'e shouldn't know, but does?"

I leaned a bit closer to the King, nodding, "He said he was-"

"-The Three-Eyed Raven," Jon finished for me, eyes closed, "My brother is a warg, and a greenseer. 'e went beyond the Wall years ago. 'e met the Children of the Forest, living ones. Meera was with 'im, and sorted out my brother's cryptic words. She said a few times that... it was like Bran Stark died out there." His eyes opened, and that aching sadness I so often felt from him rolled over me in waves, "... sometimes I believe 'er."

"Isn't Meera his wife, though?"

"Aye, she is," Jon stood and offered me a hand, "Sansa sent word that he'd offered her just after my coronation. I was there for the wedding last year. Was one of the few times in nearly ten years that I saw Bran smile. Both of them rather forcefully abdicated the Lordship to Sansa, more than once for the more traditional nobles."

I took his hand and was hoisted out of the snow with such force that I nearly stumbled. I caught myself on Jon's upper arms to stop from stumbling, and for a second marveled at how warm he felt, despite the cold of winter all around us.

"Your brother scares me," I bit my lip, staring at the fur about his shoulders, "It was like he knew everything about me. Without me saying a word. He... He  _quoted_  my mother!"

"Bran was the first to know who my birth parents were," Jon's voice took a gruff, gravelly tone, "He saw my birth in one of his visions, and the records Sam got from the Citadel proved it."

"So he... just knows these things?" My gaze drew up, following the line of his shoulder, his neck, down his sharp jaw and to his eyes.

Those eyes softened. They were enrapturing, and under my arms I felt Jon's shoulders sag, "Aye, he does."

We were silent then. Flakes of snow fell between us, but only a few as we stood so close. It was strange. How I could feel so warm from the heat of him alone, despite the frozen land surrounding us.

Then a great gust blew through the Godswood. I gasped, pressing closer to Jon on instinct, my hand tightening on his arm. Leaves as red as blood flew through us, passed us, and my gaze whipped up to the shaking bowers of the weirwood. Then slid to the face on it's trunk, only to blink in surprise when I saw that it no longer bled from the eyes. In fact, it was as if the face had never bled in the first place.

"I've never seen a wierwood with a face before-" I turned back to Jon and stopped.

He was looking down at me with a strange expression. A bit of a frown tugged at his lips, yet his pupils were blown wide. The hand that wasn't still clenched in mine had fallen, grazing just above my hip. And it was that, coupled with the heat of his body and ice of his eyes, that I realized how we looked. Half in each other's arms, barely a hair's breadth between us. And Jon stared at me with a thirst that frightened me.

"Jon, I..." Curse my voice for sounding so subdued, so yearning! But the pull between us was so strong, the feelings too heady, that as Jon's deep eyes slid from mine to my parted lips, I said nothing.

_"You will want to know him."_

I stepped back from Jon, snow muffling the movement as a stillness set in around us. I ignored how Jon had begun to move, to lean down to me with his sight on my lips, and took one more step back. I smiled and bowed low, proud because it wasn't clumsy and I didn't stumble.

"Your Majesty, thank you for helping me up."

"Synne-"

"I'm going to go, uh... see if Tyrion needs my help or ah, sew something," I giggled, nervous fluttering in my stomach as Jon regarded me with something between confusion and shock, "I saw some of Lady Stark's embroidery, I'll go ask her to teach me. My sewing skills are worse than my reading."

Jon took a step forward, brow furrowed and mouth drawn down, "Synne-"

"Goodbye, Your Majesty!"

I didn't stop running for many minutes, but this time with enough sense to pay attention to where I was going and not to stop until I'd reached my room. Florys leaped from the bed when I flew face first into the sheets. She then hopped back up and gave my hand a sniff; I gave her a pat.

Jon had wanted to kiss me. Sure, the movement had been subtle and near invisible, but he  _did_  bend his head towards me before I had to good sense to pull back. My heart thumped hard against my ribcage. Emotions swirled through me; confusion, relief, fear. I was a bastard, a proud bastard raise lowborn. This wasn't some frolic between country children. This man was the King of Westeros. Such a man could ill afford to make a match unless it was advantageous to the Kingdom.

It was not fear that drove me from the Godswood, though I feared the girlish beating of my traitorous heart. It was practicality. I remembered mother's words, her teachings, and my place in the world.

I would not let myself fall victim to Jon Targaryen.

* * *

That night Sansa held a feast to honor the arrival of her brother, the King. Even I, a bastard, was made to sit at the high table between Meera and Sansa. It was a place of great honor, I was told. I just wanted to sink into my seat and die. The eyes of dozens of Northern nobles were on us, and me specifically as the unknown of the group.

And in that unease and with a good few cups of wine in his belly, Tyrion brought up one of his favorite new topics, "Synne Lannister has a very nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

I groaned, "Father, please... Not right now, okay?"

"Any bastard I've ever met jumped at the chance to be legitimized," Sansa said with a small smirk.

I rolled my eyes and dug into my plate of potatoes, "My mother was no noble. I wasn't raised a no noble. I am a bastard raised in brothels and farms in Dorne and I've only known that until a half year ago. And I don't see no reason to change it."

"You give up a lot by not," she seemed surprised, in a subdued sort of way. Her eyes flickered to Jon. I wondered if she was thinking about how he was raised, being treated as the black sheep of the family.

"I'm not givin' up anything. Can't miss what you never had and what you've not been around."

"You don't want to forget where you came from. What was done to your mother," I flinched. As usual, Bran's words were too the point, unyieldingly accurate, and terrifying.

I only shrugged. Slowly I was finding the best way to deal with Bran Stark was to try as hard as possible to ignore him. So I reached for the roasted rosemary potatoes and heaped a generous helping of them on my plate.

"The name does 'ave a nice sound," I nearly dropped my fork. Jon was on my father's side in this? He must have seen the look on my face, for he slowly added, "... but it's your choice."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," I turned back to my food, still unable to hold his gaze for more than a moment.

"You are literally the only one at this table besides Davos who calls him that," Tyrion took another generous swig of wine, "But at least you aren't calling him Targaryen."

Jon shot him a sharp look, and seeing my father starting to get a bit drunk, I hastily laughed and replied as Jon opened his mouth, "I guess I'm in great company, right Ser Davos?"

The man in question, sitting to Tyrion's right, stumbled over his agreement for a moment. Then the conversation turned to lighter topics, and thankfully neither my status as a bastard nor my refusal to call Jon by his name we're brought up again.

I was left alone after dinner - once I was escorted back to my room - and stared out of my window overlooking the Winterfell courtyard. Bridget had come and gone, giving Florys a wide berth even as the fox tried to play with her. But she wasn't as skiddish with the animal as the night before. That was progress.

He wouldn't get out of my head. Bridget had asked me a few things, meaningless questions about my day, a bath, where I preferred this item or that to be left. I felt bad, but the only thing on my mind was the courtyard, the King, and the words of his brother. Over and over again, I repeated my mantra of not falling for Jon in my head. And over and over again, it failed to release the tension in my chest. So I focused on the torchlight outside, where it illuminated the whiteness of the yard. It didn't help much, but it was something.

Jon was a lonely man. He'd lost so much in his life, much more than I had if we measured purely by body count. He'd lost the woman who raised him, though she'd showed Jon little kindness from what I'd heard. Half of his siblings. His birth parents. The man who raised him, who he thought was his father until the truth came out. He'd lost two loves. And now, he led a country that he never wanted to lead.

I had lost a mother. I'd known no father until Tyrion. I'd worked happily on a little farm and lived in a little shack. My worries, my life and my struggles, seemed so inconsequential compared to him. Compared to anyone I'd met since Bronn showed up at the farm, really.

Yet the way Jon had looked at me made me forget all that. Our talks in the Godswood made me forget all that. All our differences in upbringing, in status, in ability. We'd talked about our favorite foods back in King's Landing - mine was Dornish honeycakes with baked apple, his was roasted meat and potatoes - and the stupid antics we'd gotten up to as children. They were the talks equals had. Not the talks anyone would think happened between a King and one of his bastard subjects. And I loved that about him. But I couldn't love him. I wouldn't love him.

I was repeating that mantra under my breath when the very man my scattered thoughts revolved around strode passed one of the torches. I didn't jump, but my shoulders sank as I watched him cross the courtyard to the practice dummy's. Tyrion and Ser Devos were with him. I couldn't here what they were saying, but Davos gestured to the dummies for a moment before leaving. After a few other words that had Jon crossing his arms and turning away - I swear Tyrion was smiling, too - my father left the King alone. That was odd; usually I'd only seen him alone when we'd crossed paths in the Godswood. Then again, this place was obviously more home to Jon than King's Landing.

I watched him without shame. There were no candles lit in my room, though the moonlight hit the window perfectly, so I thought I was fine. Jon removed his cloak despite the cold and drew his sword. He swung with a practiced grace leagues above the few soldiers I'd seen in town back in Dorne. Yet he moved slower than I was used to, almost like he was dancing. Running through the moves as more a way of meditation than actual practice. I don't know how long I spent watching him, , only that he didn't stop until Sansa appeared in the torchlight too. They spoke briefly, he sheathed his sword, and Sansa left.

But Jon stayed. He sat at the base of a pillar, half under a nearby torch with his head in his hands. And I wanted to go to him. And I stayed frozen, a hand on my windowsill.

That was when Jon's eyes found me. Technically we were much to far apart to be sure, but I knew it. Jon's eyes were mere pinpricks at this distance, but he looked right at me. We both jumped, startled, but neither looked away. Neither of us looked away for a long, long time.

* * *

The next day Maester Tarly arrived with his wife Gilly and son Sam. I'd always thought that Maesters didn't have families and especially not children, but these two were, without a better word for it, cute together. They looked at each other with unabashed affection, and the Maester was so kind and gracious to her. And their son, who looked much like Gilly, was the sweetest toddler. It made me happy to watch them the first day, but after that... a strange jealousy bloomed in my chest. From mother's stories, she and Tyrion had been so in love. I could have been little Sam.

About the same time the Maester arrived, my dreams grew strange. I could remember them with a strange clarity, though they were fuzzy around the edges. I dreamt of being low to the ground, watching myself sleep. Other times, I flew high above Winterfell with wings as black as night. In the skies, I was joined by a raven with a third eye. When low to the ground, stalking the Halls of Winterfell, I could hear the Raven's call. Each time, I woke with a cold sweat and a head of questions.

Samwell Tarly spent the first two days shut up in meetings with Jon, Sansa, and Tyrion or helping his family settle in. On the third, we began my lessons.

"Tyrion told me where you are in Wolkan's lessons," Tarly piled books and parchment on one of the library tables, "B-but I want to try a bit different." Before I could ask, he added, "I am writing the history of the years after the death of King Robert. Wolkan had started teaching you it, but as someone who's detached from it, I want to know what  _you_  want to learn."

I blinked and stared, "... Huh?"

"I-I mean, to be more dynamic in teaching you," He stumbled a bit over his words. The man wasn't entirely unconfident, but I took pity on him all the same. Then a sureness cemented in this face and he added, "When it comes to recent history, what do  _you_  want to learn first?"

My mind went to Jon and the Stark's. How he was raised, about the War of the Bastards and the fall of the Wall. It was on the tip of my tongue when I paused.

"... The Dragon Queen," My voice shook a bit, half scared of what the man might say, "Daenerys Targaryen."

He launched into the lesson, pulling out an old and weathered map to trace Daenerys's journey through Essos and Westeros. Each story was punctuated by a place, and many involved people I'd met, like Tyrion and Missandei and Grey Worm.

Daenerys Targaryen was fiery and brash, brutal but just and fair. She freed slaves and strung up their slavers. She'd lost her pregnancy and husband and burned their killer. She'd risen from the flames with three dragons in tow.

She was strength. She gave anyone their fair chance, and held them to their honor. Refuse to bow, and she gave no second chances. Bow and she would do all in her power to protect you.

She was larger than life, a Goddess among mortals. It was her memory alone that led some Dothraki to setting roots in Westeros. She was striking, and impossible to forget.

Then the thought came, unbidden and gross yet lingering; how could I ever compete with that?

But I couldn't think that. I am a low-raised bastard with a silly crush. Why be jealous of a dead woman and her relationship with Jon?

"Are the stories true?" I asked in hushed tones, eyes darting about as if the walls could hear us. Given Arya Stark's uncanny abilities, they just might, "About how she died?"

"Depends on the story," Tarly shrugged. His eyes flickered to the side, weary, and I knew he wouldn't tell me everything.

After that, we went to subjects easier on the mind. Arithmetic and cartography and trade, this time centered on the North. But even then, I couldn't completely rid my thoughts of Daenerys Targaryen and the irrational jealousy deep in my heart for the dead love of the King.

Finally lessons came to an end and Maester Tarly packed away his dusty tomes and old maps. I insisted on helping, and just as the last book was put away, the library door opened. In wheeled Bran, Meera steering his chair.

"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," Tarly bowed.

I gave Bran a wary look, and he gave a blank one back. I looked away first, to Maester Tarly, and bowed clumsily, "... Thank you, Maester Tarly."

"Just call me Sam, everyone does," the portly man scratched the back of his head.

I eyed Bran again and tried to subtly move towards the door. Meera's brow furrowed and before I could get to the door, she asked, "Stay a bit; Bran's asked to talk to you."

"B-but I have to-"

"She has no plans after this and was going to play with Florys until dinner."

I winced. Damn that man and damn his insight, or whatever it was. Sam shot us both looks, a bit confused and worried, before ducking out and leaving me alone with Bran and his wife. Meera wheeled him to a nearby reading table, the same one from last time he'd cornered me. He motioned to his wife, who bent down enough that their foreheads touched. It should have been sweet, but something about the interaction was off-putting.

"I'll go to Sansa," Meera stood, and after a strangely apologetic look, left without another word.

I stood there in shock for far too long, and Bran spoke, "Meera's brother, Jojen, was a greenseer as well. She isn't, but is still more susceptible than most."

"What are you talking about, Milord?"

When he spoke next, his lips did not move. Bran's eyes held mine, and I was frozen in his icy gaze, "You've seen the Three-Eyed Raven in your dreams."

I called and stumbled back, hitting the cold stone walls with a smack. Bran looked unaffected, and spoke this time from the mouth, "Jon is a warg. Arya too. Both with a greater natural ability than you, but both refuse and will forever refuse to use and train it." He tilted his head to the side, an act I assumed was as close to a smile as he got, "You will not."

I gulped, rather noisily, and said in a hushed whisper, "Wh-What's a warg?"

"You're lookin' at one," Meera nodded her head at her husband, a grim smile on her face, "One in a thousand born a warg, one in a thousand wargs born a Greenseer..." There was a stoniness in her face; did she just flinch?

"And only one Greenseer is the Three Eyed Raven," Bran finished for her, giving Meera a brief look that might have been pity if it weren't so hollow.

The woman and Bran stared at each other, a sort of battle of wills between them. Then, Meera sighed and stormed from the room. Her eyes had been glistening.

"Her brother was a Greenseer," Bran's words drew back my gaze, "He died getting me to the previous Three Eyed Raven. So I could become him."

"Huh?" I couldn't wrap my head around his words.

Bran said, "A warg can enter the mind of other creatures. See through there eyes. Become one with them." His bottomless eyes locked mine, "Control them."

I remembered my dream. I saw through Florys's eyes, and I'd seen a raven. So I looked away from Bran, wincing as he continued, "You started dreaming of being your fox. The talent can extend to other beings as well. Birds, dogs..." His expression, for the first time, changed. Something dark, almost regretful, twisted his face, "... people."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, "I-I was only dreaming."

"You want to protect Jon," Did the teen ever answer a direct question? "You want to hide from him because he is the culmination of everything Tysha taught you to fear. Power. Nobility. Wealth, and love." My head snapped up, "You love him and it scares you. Because Tysha loved Tyrion and she was tortured for over two decades for it. So you cling to your status as a bastard. It's your pride, your shield."

"Shut up."

"You wonder if you should have never taken Tyrion on his offer to live in King's Landing," Bran said, "You wonder if you can handle it, when Jon must choose a queen from among the trueborn daughters of his allies. So you cling to being a bastard, first from pride for your mother and then as a shield against my brother."

I growled, "Shut the hell up!"

"You can protect him like no one else will," I shaking at this point, torn between throttling the boy and running away, "And I will teach you how."

My growing anger left all at once, "... Excuse me?"

"You are not a Greenseer," Bran leaned back in his furs, hands clasped in his lap, "But I knew you, even before you arrived in King's Landing. I called to your dormant ability after you arrived. And I will teach you how to harness it."

"For what?" I asked, baffled, "What do you get out of all this?"

He simply smiled.

I hadn't realized until he moved his wheelchair back a half foot that I'd been advancing on the young Lord. I slumped over in the nearby chair, "You're saying I can, what? Control animals?"

"Not entirely. I am saying, Synne Sand, that one day... You will fly."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I tried really hard to downplay the revelation that Synne is a warg, since like... multiple main characters (at least in the books) are canonically wargs. But... fuck it, I got ideas, so they happening!


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own GOT

* * *

Chapter Seven

**Tea Time**

_"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."_

_\- André Malraux_

* * *

For every night after, I dreamed of raven's and foxes and wolves. Sometimes, I ran as Florys through the nooks and crannies of Winterfell. Others, I was a mouse, or a dog, or a bird. Once or twice I swore I was Ghost, curled at the foot of Jon's bed. It was wonderful, strange, and just so freeing that sometimes I woke up to a tear stained pillow.

Bran and I didn't speak much outside of the dreams. When we did, we didn't talk about them unless Bran started the discussion. Because, of the two of us, he was the one who would know with absolute certainty that we were alone. The teen still scared me more than even Arya, but over the next week, it morphed to a sort of fearful respect.

"You still remember only half of your dream wanderings," It wasn't a question. Bran never spoke a question. I nodded and he added, "You will tonight."

And I did.

This time, I knew I was Florys. My fur was tan turned white in the moonlight and as I uncurled from the floor to look around, I saw the insides of my room. There were no lights, save a sliver filtering in from the ajar door. A raven flew, perching on the nearby sill. It didn't caw, but stared right at me. This was how Bran's lessons went. His birds appeared, and I just knew what he wanted me to do to test my ability.

I slipped through the door, leaving my body behind. Down the corridor I went, this way and that, concentrating on the sights and smells the way only an animal could. I needed to remember everything.

The raven guided me, though I only got glimpses of shadow as it passed nearby windows. It was cold here, very cold without the layers of clothing and cloaks and blankets. I huffed and sneezed, pawing at the ground a bit. Everything was so big to a fennec fox. Yet at the same time, I saw everything so much better. Cracks and crumbling stone, little slivers in doorways I could slip through. Previous trails left by rodents and insects.

I crawled into one as the raven sang and found myself staring at the heels of my father. My human father. Not another fox. I am not Florys, but who am I? A fox, but a human. This man's daughter, but also his daughter's pet. Which was it? Both? Neither? What am I-

The raven cawed. Focus, Synne.

"Close that door, will you?" Tyrion huffed and moved away, "I would, but it's a bit high up for me."

And then Jon took up my vision. I whimpered and scooted back, tail whishing back and forth. He paused, halfway through closing the shutters, and raised an eyebrow at me, "It's Synne's fox again..."

"What's that?"

Jon shuttered the window and turned, "Synne's fox. Been sneaking around a lot at night. Ends up 'ere a lot, too."

"That beast of yours doesn't try and eat it?" Tyrion scoffed, taking a heavy sip of wine.

"No," they both sat near a roaring fire. I bolted for it, only dimly aware that I was in a small sitting room adjacent to the King's bed chamber. All I cared about was warming up

"Well, maybe it's as smitten with your beast as my daughter is with you."

I snapped awake. For an awful moment, I was both Florys and myself. In two places at once, torn from the fox in shock but not enough to stop warging. I nearly screaming, stifling myself with a pillow. Every movement I made, Florys mirrored. Everything Florys did, I copied.

And the raven cawed. Focus, Synne.

By the time my human body went limp and my vision through the fox's eyes cleared, I'd missed a good few minutes if discussion.

"Yes, yes, that's your opinion my friend," I was curled on a couch now, Tyrion next to me and Jon across a small low table, "But the point stands."

"You know I didn't want this crown, Tyrion."

"And you couldn't abdicate," Tyrion shrugged, "Who would you give the crown to? The Baratheon line is dead. You are the last Targaryen. The next closest in line after you is, technically, me because I'm a Lannister and Cersei's brother. But I wouldn't touch the crown with a ten foot pole. After me? No one of note, except your siblings, and I'd be more likely to take it than them." Jon didn't say anything and Tyrion sighed, "Jon. Your sister is right about some things. You not wanting the kingdom and your abilities as a leader, and your genuine care for the people, is  _precisely_ why you should have it."

"It shouldn't be-"

"I swear to whatever gods you prefer, if you bring up that the throne should have gone to Daenerys one more time I will throw this wine at you," Tyrion swirled the glass in his hand, "And you know I hate wasting good wine."

"It's true," Jon huffed, arms crossed.

"And it's also true that you've got a huge stick up your ass about something that really doesn't matter."

Jon snapped to attention, "Doesn't mat-?!"

Tyrion cut him off calmly, "Daenerys is dead, but she achieved her goal. Targaryen blood sits on the Iron Throne." Jon deflated immediately, "And nothing can change what's happened. We all have to live with the consequences, Jon."

Jon was silent for a long time, but when he spoke, I had to concentrate hard not to be torn from my warging again, "... I can't do it, Tyrion. It's too soon to marry."

The fox that was me whimpered. Tyrion reached down and scratched my ears, "it's been two years and like it or not, you need a legitimate heir that's  _not_ a dwarf nearly twice your age who has only managed to father one bastard despite my apparent love of whores-" I felt my human body wince, "-and it will give stability to the kingdom to have a Queen."

"Tyrion..."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Jon, you don't have to love a girl to wed them, or even bed them!" Tyrion groaned. But I could hear the grin in his voice, "There's plenty of eligible women, though let's just take your sister-cousins off the table now. The last thing we need is more accusations of incest."

I gave a weird sort of snort, and back in my room, my body laughed. The disgust on Jon's face was priceless, "Tyrion, what the hell?!"

And, of course, Tyrion only shrugs. After a pregnant pause, Jon stood up with an obvious intent for bed, but before he reached the door my father said, "She would say yes, Jon." The King froze, "Maybe not at first, and it would take some coaxing, but she would."

"... I know."

"It's an option," There was an edge to Tyrion's voice, a kind of pleading almost, "And a damn good one. It would shut up both factions of loyalists at once, and with word getting around about what happened, could help quell the Dothraki and Meereeni if we spin it right."

"It's... not that simple, Tyrion."

"Of course it is," My father scoffed. When Jon said nothing, merely stood in the doorway to the bed chamber, he added in a softer tone, "Not everyone you care about dies, Jon."

"No, only the women," Jon said sharply.

"Sansa and Arya are looking healthy, last I saw."

"You know what I mean," Jon snapped.

Tyrion stood, expression full of practiced boredom as he hurried me off the couch, "Yes, yes, we all get it Jon. You're cursed, no one should ever fall for you, and God's forbid you fall for anyone else. An arrow may fall from the sky at complete random and strike the unlucky girl down!"

"Tyrion..."

"Come on, you, let's get you back to your owner," Tyrion nudged my tail, motioning to the other door. I whined, eyeing Jon for a moment before prancing after my father, who paused at the exit long enough to shoot Jon another pointed look, "The point stands, Jon. Just because the war is over doesn't mean that everyone's okay with the outcome. You  _will_ have to marry someday, and soon."

I wasn't sure, but as Tyrion closed the door behind us, I thought I heard Jon sigh.

The raven cawed again, and I perked up. Tyrion tried to hurry me along, but when the raven cawed again - down the opposite corridor - I took off. I heard Tyrion huff behind me, but he didn't follow. The corridors were dark, lit only by the occasional torch, but I raced on. Bran's lessons was clear; explore.

And I did, for hours upon hours in the dead of night, I explored Winterfell as only a small fox could. It was... Exhilarating, moving between door cracks, wedging myself through obstacles I knew I never could as a human. Which was how, who knows how long later, I found myself weaseling into the kitchen storeroom. A bite couldn't hurt.

There was already two people there. I couldn't see them well in the dark, as they were only illuminated by a small candle. One was tall and female, and the other short and male. I whipped around, about to leave thinking I'd stumbled in on a triste, when the man spoke.

"Just put it in and mix it about. He told me it was tasteless, so they won't know a thing."

"I don't know about this..." Said the woman, her voice trembling.

"Just do it. That bitch has been lording over us like a Lord in place of her brother for to goddamn long. I didn't fight for the North to put a woman on as just a Warden."

"... Yes. You're right, sorry I..."

"Just do it. She takes it every morning with her tea."

I slipped behind a nearby barrel as they shuffled about some more. Then the two left, and I poked my head out to see what they'd been doing. I couldn't tell which it was, but they'd definitely messed with something. It wasn't the wine or mead; that would be kept in the cellars of Winterfell. And it wasn't the vegetables, fruits, or meats; the latter two were on the other side of the storage room, and the meats were kept elsewhere entirely. What had they done?

* * *

"And you remembered everything."

I nodded, "Some of it's fuzzy, but... it felt weird... Like I was spying on them."

"It won't feel so weird eventually," Bran said, face passive as ever.

"Should I, you know..." I gulped noisily. Something about Bran, despite our weird true and his 'teaching' me warging, always put me on edge, "Tell Father and Jon I can do this too? It doesn't feel right, not telling them. Especially since I... feel like I saw something?" I hated it, how my memories of warging seemed to slip right through my fingers at the best of times. Sure, I was very knew to the ability and it came mostly in sleep for now, but still...

"You don't need my permission," he looked up at the the library door, "They will all know soon."

Before I could say anything word, Bridget she gave a low bow to Bran, "Milord." Then turned to me, "Lady Stark has requested your presence. She's doing embroidery in her sitting room."

Oh hell. Where was that? "Um... Thanks. Would you show me where that is?"

She curtsied, "Yes, milady."

"I'm not a Lady," I pointed out.

Bridget flashed a smile, "Yes, milady."

I sighed and she giggled. Bridget led me through Winterfell to a sitting room I remembered from my first night here. Inside, the regal Sansa sat by the fireplace with stitching in hand. Arya lounged on the furthest couch, sharpening the long, thin blade she'd threatened me with in the carriage. I tensed and wished Bridget hadn't bowed and left soon after.

"Please, sit," Sansa gestured to the other half of her couch, "I thought we should get to know each other a bit better."

"I um... thank you, Lady Stark," I made a clumsy curtsy - did Arya just giggle? - and sat next to the Lady of Winterfell. Her embroidery was so well done, so masterful, that was very glad that all my pieces had been left behind in King's Landing. Of course Sansa Stark could embroider well; she looked every part the noble lady I was the furthest from.

Sansa set her embroidery aside, "You don't have any projects of your own? A pillow, perhaps?"

I shook my head, flushing a deep scarlet, "N-no, I left it all in King's Landing."

"All's well; it's hard to find pleasure even in this anymore," Sansa gestured to her work, a sort of disgust in her voice.

"But... it's so pretty," I blinked. She'd embroidered a black wolf on a white background, one with the wings of a dragon. Something for her brother, no doubt.

"But's that's all it is," Sansa said, almost wistfully, "I used to delight in such girlish things all the time."

"Yeah, she was insufferable."

"Arya, please," Sansa rolled her eyes, obviously used to that sort of comeback from her sister. She faced me full on then, "The wars and the undead changed a lot of us. Tell me, Synne; how did the war affect you, so far south? I've never been to Dorne; the furthest south I've gone was when I stayed in King's Landing with our father."

Ned Stark. The former Lord of Winterfell who was beheaded as a traitor and later exonerated and hailed a hero. I couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like, losing a father like that, "It... to be honest, the war didn't much reach Dorne. I remember when Princess Myrcella stayed there before she died, but that was a long ways from where I lived. None of the battles ever really reached us, or any of the infighting after the Sand Snakes were imprisoned. Now, we just have most of the Dothraki, though they've settled more east and north from home."

"I hope you know how lucky that makes you, Synne," Seeing my surprise, Sansa went on, "We stopped the Night King and his army here. And many of us sacrificed a lot for that to happen. The nobles, the soldiers, the low-born, everyone."

"We did lose, too," I said, "The entire power structure of Dorne was wiped out. I-I don't know much of what happened, but I heard some terrible things in town about the power struggle in the last few years between the rest of the Dornish noble houses over who would rule after the Martell's." Sansa opened to mouth to interject, but I kept going, "But yeah, you're right. The war didn't reach us; it was mostly in the North and the Vale. But..." I bit my lip. Tyrion's words, an age ago it felt, reminded me not to make enemies of all the nobles.

"I know that look," Sansa said, usually severe expression softening, "You can speak free here."

"My mother was forced to work in a brothel for ten years against her will and was assaulted and raped every day. I... I had to listen to it, all the way up until we fled to the farm," I'd blurted the words out so quickly that a few ran together, and took a deep breath to calm myself, "And then... I watched my mother die. I think, well... I think that everyone's lost a lot. But... comparing everything terrible that's happened in your life to mine isn't really fair to either of us."

She raised an eyebrow, and for a moment her knowing expression reminded me of Bran. They were definitely siblings, "Oh?"

"I-I don't want to assume, but... I mean, everyone reacts differently to a situation," I said, "You had a lot of people all around you all your life, and you lost a lot of them. For twenty years all I really had was my mother. And then I lost her. It's like... neither of those is really worse than the other; you've lost, and I've lost. We've both dealt and are still dealing with it, just like all the people around us. And... if we start comparing tragedies, it just turns into a contest of angst that no one ever wins."

Sansa smiled, "Then what do you suppose we do then? Us women, who've both lost much and dealt with it in our own ways?"

"We move on," I couldn't tell what the Lady was getting at with this questioning. Arya hadn't said a word either, just watching me like a hawk with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed like usual, "We keep going and rebuilding and finding new and more reasons to fight for peace. Because, well um, even though we've lost a lot, there's still something behind to protect."

"That sounds really preachy," Arya grumbled, uncrossing her arms to go back to sharpening her blade.

I blinked. Did Arya ever sound anything other that disgruntled? Sansa eyed her sister, then chuckled under her breath, "To translate for you, Synne; Arya agrees in a way."

"Shut up, Sansa."

And the Lady did, though her smile grew wider for a moment before melting back to her stoic mask. She took back up her embroidery and provided me with a small circle of my own to work on. Sansa was a great teacher, calmly correcting my horrible stitching and showing me how she did hers. Time seemed to fly by as she taught me to embroider a wolf of my own - much better than my previous attempts - and soon a mousy serving girl came in with a small tray of meats, cheeses, and fruits. Behind her was another girl with a large silver tea kettle and tray with loose leaf teas, sugar, honey, and cream.

"Thank you, Neledi," Sansa said as the girl with the food tray set it down. Arya dug in without a word, earning a look from Sansa. The younger Stark slowed down her devouring under her elder sister's hot stare, but only just.

The second girl set the tea tray down and filled all three cups before leaving with the first after Sansa dismissed them. I waited for Sansa to start steeping her tea and tried to copy her movements, really having no idea what to do with such fancy equipment. Usually it was wine or water in King's Landing, or something prepared beforehand by servants.

"It's soothing to do myself," Sansa said, seeing how I was fumbling to get the honey open, "Also; you're twisting the cap the wrong way, Synne."

My face turned colors again as I muttered something like, "I knew that!" before finally getting the honey out of the jar and into my tea. Sansa instead went for the sugar, heaping a good three spoonfuls into her tea and mixing it around. She didn't reach for the cream, so I didn't either, not really seeing the point of putting it in. It just seemed too... decadent at that point.

As Sansa stirred her tea, my brow furrowed. I felt like I should be remembering something. Something important, about her tea, "Um... do you drink tea a lot, Sansa?"

"Every morning since the war ended and shipments started from the South again," she said.

"And... you put sugar in it?"

Now she looked confused, "Yes, I do... why?"

"Just... just sugar?"

Arya stopped stuffing her face and swallowed thickly. Now both sisters were looking at me with confusion as Sansa nodded, "Yes, just that."

It was nothing. Probably nothing, "Sorry, sorry I... um, just getting used to all this still, you know?"

"Oh, right, of course," Sansa raised an eyebrow.

We went back to working on the embroidery as the tea steeped. The nagging feeling in the back of my head that I was forgetting something just wouldn't leave. It must have shown on my face, because Sansa set her work down and picked up her cup, "Are you feeling well? You look like you're about to pass out."

"I... um... I don't know exactly," I bit my lip and half tossed my embroidery down, "I just feel like I'm... forgetting something."

"Hmm..." Sansa said, mixing her tea one more time before raising it up.

Just before the cup could touch her lips, it hit me. My warging. Florys, in the storeroom. The two people huddled over crates in the candlelight. A raven cawing outside.

_"Just do it. She takes it every morning with her tea."_

I screamed, "Don't!" and swatted the cup out of her hand just as the rim touched her lips. Sansa yelled and I was suddenly thrown back, pinned by Arya with her blade against my throat. In seconds, guards flooded into the room, all with swords drawn.

"Move and you die," Arya whispered, a strange glee in her eyes. I went stock still, knowing full well she was serious.

A guard moved passed and I heard him say, "Are you alright, my Lady?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine..." Sansa said somewhere behind her sister. I heard her click her tongue before adding, "Arya, get off her. I'm sure she had a good reason to scald my hand."

I winced as Arya clambered off. What was with me and getting into trouble? I rubbed my neck where her blade had laid, so tight that it left a red mark, "I-I uh..." Sansa didn't say anything, and shushed Arya when she tried to suggest locking me up for attacking the Lady of Winterfell - though the younger Stark's voice was light and almost teasing, I knew she'd do it - "It was poisoned."

All jest left Arya's face as Sansa's turned sheet white, "... poisoned?" She looked back at the tea, "... how do you know that?"

"I-It's hard to explain, but um..." Was this was Bran meant? By how everyone would know what I was soon anyway? Then why the hell didn't  _he_  warn his sister?!

Arya, now all serious and with bloodlust in her eyes, pointed her thin blade right at me, "Tell us now and you keep your head."

"I-I'm a warg!" I blurted out, "B-Bran's been teaching me the last week to control it and I was warged into Florys my f-fox last night and I saw two people in a storeroom and they were talking about tampering with something in your tea and-"

A great many footsteps reached my ears, just before the door was flung wide open. Jon raced in, Davos and Tyrion hot behind him. The King froze, eyes wide as his gaze slid from Sansa to Arya and down the latter's blade to me, still on the floor.

I was really in trouble now.

* * *

"Someone tried to poison Sansa?"

The guards had cleaned up the mess and left, a few hurrying to Sam with samples of the tea and sugar. Bran had been called and confirmed what I'd said about being a warg to the others, earning me a lot of looks from, well, everyone. But my warging wasn't the most pressing issue. Sam bursted through the door, an already on edge Jon bolting out of his seat in alarm.

"It was arsenic," Sam said, "Mixed into the sugar."

My eyes widened, "B-but..."

Tyrion shot me a look that clearly said to be quiet. Thankfully, Sansa was thinking along the same lines and ordered, "Send men to the kitchens. All food using sugar in the last day is to be thrown out. Maester Tarly, help the men test our stores for any tampering and dispose of anything you even think is tainted."

"Y-yes, Lady Sansa," Sam scurried back out, the two guards inside the room right behind him.

As the door shut, Sansa deflated. She sank into a chair, white as a ghost with her face half covered by a hand. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat was as dry as the dunes of Dorne.

Jon knelt in front of her and took Sansa's hands in his, "Sansa. I will find whoever did this and I will take their life myself, I swear it."

"Jon..." Her hand slid away, and she looked worn far beyond her years, "I have worked so hard for Winterfell. For our family. And now..."

Jon looked am just as lost as I. So when Bran spoke and broke the heavy silence, all eyes turned to him, "I need to go."

I'd never seen Sansa freeze like that. She was always still and calculating, but now Sansa was a statue of ice. It took a long moment for her to utter a single word, "No."

"You know now that I cannot stay," Bran said, "As long as a male Stark is in Winterfell, the people will not accept you, not entirely. I am meant to be elsewhere.".

"Bran, we've talked about this," Sansa seethed, pushing away Jon's hands to stand and pace instead.

Jon stood, "Sansa, what's he talking about."

She stopped, glared passed Jon at Bran, and sighed, "You weren't supposed to know, because I will  _never_ -" she shot Bran a pointed look, "-allow it."

"Sansa-"

"He means to leave Winterfell, Jon," Sansa barked, one arm flung out in her youngest brother's direction, "He means to leave his wife, his family,  _everything_  to go back beyond the Wall!"

Sansa's words fell like a lead weight. As Jon turned, my heart broke at his expression. His eyes were wide, face drawn, "...  _what_?"

"This won't be the last attempt on Sansa's life," Bran said, voice steady despite the shock of the room, "There will be others. But I have not seen any of them being successful... if I leave Winterfell. And here, I cannot use my abilities as the Three-Eyed Raven to the fullest. There are too many... distractions."

The others were staring at either Bran, Jon, or Sansa. But just over his shoulder, I saw Meera look away from her husband. She was biting her lip, as if holding back tears, and the hand not resting on Bran's chair drifted to her stomach. I suddenly got a cold feeling in my own, and when Meera looked back up to me, her eyes confirmed it.

"Oh gods, you're..."

My low, breathless words were drown out by Sansa half-yelling, "You're not going beyond the Wall, Bran! There is  _nothing_  there anymore. No Night King, no wights. Nothing but snow and ice and death."

"The Children are there. And I must go to them."

"Gods damn it all, Bran-!"

Tyrion then cut  _Sansa_  off with a sigh, "This conversation is all well and good, but the pressing matter is securing Sansa's safety. Jon, Sansa, I suggest increased security detail, but only of people we all trust, and a food taster for her at the very least."

"No one else is dying for me," Sansa shot him a sharp look.

"I didn't say that," If the situation wasn't so serious, I would bet coin that he would roll his eyes, "A trusted servant or two and Maester Tarly, working together, can test food before it gets to you and if found to be poisoned, administer any antidotes needed without harm to yourself and - as Maester Tarly I hear specializes in medicine - without lasting harm to the taster."

"I will  _not-_ "

"See it's done," Jon said, voice low and final.

Sansa looked like she'd been slapped, "Jon-!"

"I am not losing another family member, Sansa," Jon was so intense that I couldn't look at him, even as his sharp words and dark eyes were trained elsewhere, "Not you, not Bran, not Arya."

"This is my castle, Jon, my  _home_. I will not be a prisoner in my own castle, afraid of my own damn shadow!" Sansa was yelling now, almost half-snarling. I stepped back, feeling her panic as if it was a physical thing, "I will  _not_  have my freedom taken away again!"

All at once, Jon's own anger vanished. His expression softened, shoulders sagging, and in the looming silence Sansa's eyes widened. She loosed a shuttering breath and turned away from us all, her features thrown in stark relief by the fireplace flames. Jon stared at her, a hopelessness in him, and muttered, "Sansa, you know I would never cage you up like he did."

I didn't know who this  _he_  was, but from the looks on everyone's faces - sans Bran, whose expression hardly ever changed - it wasn't my place to ask. The pain of whatever was in Sansa's past was too strong.

Then, after well over a minute of total silence save for the crackling fire, a transformation happened. Sansa Stark squared her shoulders and stood, tall and regal, her hands clasped tight in front of her. Her eyes were steely, dangerous, with a cool anger and strength that frightened me. When she spoke, it was with pure strength and resolve, "Double my security detail, but have the new guards dress and behave as servants. They can serve my meals and watch for anything out of ordinary, and it won't look like I've noticed anything. Explain the purge of our sugar stores as a function of the winter cold chasing mice inside, who fouled the bags. And run through every servant and Noble in Winterfell at the moment, and those who have left in the last week, to see if any match Synne's description. It's not much to go on, a gender, but it's what we have."

She nodded to the last two guards in the room, "Maester Tarly, Ser Davos, if you would assist them and... fetch me the servant girl Bridget. I trust her well, and she could..."

The sentence didn't need to be finished. Sansa was obviously uncomfortable with anyone putting themselves in danger for her, especially for things like potential poisoning. I wanted to say something l, maybe steer her away from asking the poor girl to taste food for her, but I didn't.

Instead, I looked at Tyrion, "Father... I'm sorry I didn't tell you. A-about being a warg. I just found out myself, from Bran, and only after we got to Winterfell."

"Well, what I want to know is..." My dwarf father turned to glare at the young Lord in question, "Why you didn't tell anyone, Bran."

"It was not my place to tell," Bran said, "You know now. And I will teach her to harness it further."

" helpful for spying, sure. Guess I'll have to keep an eye on where your little fox goes, hmm?" Tyrion laughed, "You might just be listening in."

Jon's head snapped up, "You said you warged into your fox, Florys, and heard them in the storeroom last night?"

I bit my lip, "... Yes..."

"Did you warg into it then, or were you already warged?"

He was staring at me directly. His blue eyes, darkened in the shadows of the room, bore holes straight into my soul. I looked away. He didn't need me to answer to know. Jon turned to Sansa, assuring her of her safety, and stomped out. I winced when the door with more force than necessary.

"What'd you hear that's got his small cloths in a bunch?" Arya crossed her arms. Over the conversation, I noticed how she moved to stay just behind Sansa's right side. A protective place, easy to scope out threats and maneuver.

"Well... Um..."

"Oh, she must have heard me giving Jon a hard time about his sore lack of a Queen," Tyrion waved a dismissive hand.

Sansa sighed and shook her head. I couldn't tell if she was more exasperated, stressed, or even a little amused. But before she could say anything, I caught Meera and Bran exchanging a glance. He nodded at her, and I noticed Meera's hands clench and unclench. She then turned to Sansa, "Lady Stark. There is something else you should know."

"I-I'll go check on Jon!" I said hurriedly, "And talk to Bridget. She is the servant you gave me, after all."

I already knew what Meera was going to say, and it just felt like a family matter. It felt sort of... wrong to be there for it. So when Sansa's nod gave me the go ahead and Tyrion didn't move to leave, I added, "And I need to talk to you, Father."

Of course, by now everyone in the room knew something was up, but I just smiled and waited by the door for my father to get the hint. He raised an eyebrow at me, but followed me out of the sitting room. I didn't miss Meera's thankful glance.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" Tyrion crossed his arms when we were a good ways from the room.

I looked around, and though I didn't see anyone, I remembered that eyes and ears are everywhere among great noble castles, "Meera is, well..." And then, like a child, I knelt down and whispered in Tyrion's ear as low as I could, "Father, she's pregnant."

Tyrion froze in the middle of the hallway, eyes wide and mouth open like a fish. But he collected himself in seconds and said gruffly, "More of your midnight fox wanderings?"

I shook my head, "In the room. She when Bran was talking about leaving. She held her stomach and looked sad. Then she saw me staring, and I knew."

"So you wanted to give her the chance to tell family first," Tyrion said as we started walking again, "I wonder if the boy knows."

"He does," I said, "Bran nodded to her before she spoke up."

"That's frightening, Synne," he smiled, and wider still at my confusion, "Your perception. I thought you could only read animals so we'll."

Now it was my turn to grin, "I'm getting better with people, too."

"So it would seem," Tyrion stopped at a juncture in the hall, "Now why don't you go pay our King a visit like you said? I would bet fifty gold dragons he is in the Godswood."

I blushed brightly, "That was... Just an excuse to get out of the room. I was going to go back to mine, talk to Bridget if she's there, and write a letter to Averill."

"During the war, Jon held two lovers and his baby brother in his arms as they died. He was informed of his step-mother - really, his aunt's - death and the desecration of another brother's corpse. And the man who raised him, the father-uncle who was beheaded by my monster of a nephew, when he could do nothing about it," Tyrion said, "Jon has died for his convictions and loves his family more than anything. And one of the last members of said family nearly died - whom you saved, I might add - so, Synne..." He shot me a pointed look, "I believe Jon needs your support right now a mite more than your Dornish friend."

As always, he was right. Of course he was. But as Tyrion took the left corridor and I kept straight towards the Godswood, I couldn't help but wonder...

What did Father mean by Jon dying for his convictions?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  So I am super excited for the next chapter... and no, I'm not telling y'all why xD

 


	9. Differing Expectations

**Disclaimer:**  I don't own GOT

* * *

Chapter Eight

**Differing Expectations**

_"Expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack."_

_\- Brandon Sanderson, The Way of Kings_

* * *

I found him in the Godswood. He stood facing the great tree, back to me. Though he didn't move when I entered and weaved through the thick trees and snow-covered brush, Jon knew I was there from how my feet crunched beneath me. We were the only ones here, and even the wind seemed to silence around us.

"'ow long have you known? That you were a warg?" I couldn't tell what he was feeling when he said that. He was keeping his tone even, his face obscured.

I swallowed thickly, "About a week. Lord Bran, he... sort of cornered me about it in the library. Said he knew even before I got to Winterfell."

"Of course 'e did," Jon sighed.

I stepped towards him, "We'll find whoever is after Lady Stark."

"Bran is always correct about the past and present," Jon half turned, and I got the first glimpse of his face. He was drawn, face creased with worry. I wanted to see him smile again, "'is prophecies are multiple, more like possible futures than anything set in stone. But I..." Jon turned back to the tree, and pure anguish broke through his even tone, "I can't lose another family member, Synne. I  _won't_."

"I know, Your Majest..." I sighed, stepping up until I was just behind him. I knew it was a terrible idea, I  _knew_ it, but I set one of my pale hands against his dark-clothed upper arm regardless, "Jon."

I felt his muscles tense beneath the thick cloth, but soon Jon relaxed. As he turned to face me, I took a step back and let my hand drop with a small smile, "I will keep practicing my warging with Bran, and between the two of us we'll find something. Sansa will have a taster before her meals, and Sam is helping test the food stores for tampering. She'll have more guards, everything."

"Bran said 'e needs to leave," Jon wouldn't look at me, instead looking to the side. I noticed how his features had smoothed somewhat when our eyes met, but the moment he turned away, the worry returned in full force, "Because 'e's that damn Raven, that Greenseer. Going North passed the broken Wall... After everything we went through in the war..." His fists clenched so tight they shook.

It was a stupid idea, but I couldn't let him beat himself up over this. I took another step back and knelt over to collect and compact snow in my bare hands. It froze and bit at my fingers, but I gathered up enough to compact a ball in my hands.

"Synne, what-?"

"In all the time I've known you, you hardly smile," I tossed the ball between my hands to try and keep some semblance of warmth in my fingers, "You don't laugh much either, and I don't think I've ever heard you really give a good laugh."

"My sister was nearly poisoned today," Jon crossed his arms, eyes narrowed a bit to match his frown as his eyes followed the ball, "Now's not the time to be laughing."

"Sometimes I think, if you had your way, there would never be time for it," I stepped back once more and winked, "Everyone will protect Sansa. Brooding alone in the Godswood doesn't help anyone, least of all yourself."

"Now is not the time."

"Now is the  _best_  time."

He was glaring now, either not sure what I was getting at or just generally getting annoyed at me. So I decided to throw myself over the edge and flung the snowball right at his face. I underestimated our height difference, and the snowball smacked Jon right in the collarbone. His shoulders shot up at the sudden cold and Jon started furiously wiping the white flecks away, "Synne, what the 'ell?!"

I laughed, loud and ringing, before taking off behind the nearest tree. By the time Jon groaned and finished wiping the snow off, I already had a second ready to go, "Your call, Your Majesty! Live a little!"

"Synne this is-" Jon barely dodged my second snowball, "Synne, stop!"

"Make me, Jon!" I was laughing, real and from the belly. As my third snowball clipped the fur at his shoulder, I saw Jon crack a grin of his own, "Or will I beat the famed King of Westeros and the First Men?"

"By the Old Gods, Synne," There it was. Jon laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. It still held a tinge of the short, barking kind of laugh that betrayed his worry, but it was a star. When my next hit him in the thigh, Jon knelt over and scooped up his own fistful of snow, calling out, "You know this is childish, right? 'ardly befitting a noble!"

"Good thing I'm not noble then,  _Your Majesty_!" I darted for another tree, setting showered in snow as a ball smacked into the branch right above my head, "Just a bastard here to- whoa!"

As I gloated and gathered up another ball, Jon had slipped behind me and slammed a ball of snow right into the back of my head. I squealed and took off, flinging my own behind me. I didn't see if it hit it's target, but the game was definitely afoot at this point. I danced between the trees and bushes, Jon never far behind. We hit each other with snow in equal measure, and soon his barkish laughing turned into a real deep-bellied chuckle. My own laughter and smiles were infectious, and soon he couldn't keep his own grinning at bay.

My silly little plan worked. For a time, nestled deep in the ancient Godswood where even the wind quieted for us and no one was around to see or hear, Jon was enjoying himself. He laughed and he played. His hair and eyes glistened, cheeks taking a pinkish tone as his breath came in ragged puffs of chilled air. He drew too close as I darted behind the weirwood tree, so I scooped up a handful to smack right into his face. But I kept myself obscured by the tree, waiting for him to poke his head out. When he did, I leaped to strike.

My foot caught against the gnarled roots of the great tree.

For a moment, there was pain in the scars running up my calf, but that left the moment I fell against the solid weight of Jon. We both fell, sprawling, to the snow and the ball that I'd meant for him shattered between us. Flecks of snow coated my hair and chest, and it was the same for him. So I did what any sane, perfectly noble daughter should do. And gathered up a new ball as I sat on top of him and smashed it right in Jon's face.

"I win!" I half-shouted, flinging my arms up in the air and laughing long and hard.

Beneath me, Jon joined in, and soon we were both laughing so hard that my ribs hurt. For a long time, we laughed and we smiled. I let my arms fall back to the snow around us, smiling as I breathed deep of the cold air. My hands were deep in the snow on either side of his face, my long hair somewhat curtaining around us as I found his eyes, "See? Told you that you needed to live a little, Jon." I poked him square on the nose.

He chuckled. It was such a freeing sound, "I've not done something like that... in a long time."

I did what I would do when Averill and I had wrestling matches among the dunes outside the farm - I always won - and tapped him right on the red nose, "Then you should do it more often. What's the point in living if you don't enjoy it?"

"What's the point..." Jon repeated as one of his hands found purchase on my hip. The other raised up to touch my cheek. And he smiled.

The feel of his skin against mine made my laughter die on my lips. It felt slow - even though it was only a second at most - but I felt everything then. How I was half laid across him, thighs on either side of his hips and hands in the snow by his head. His fingertips, caressing my cheekbone so lightly, almost reverently. Like he was afraid I was going to run away again. His hand at my hip, firm but never restraining. By the  _Gods_  I loved this man.

And so I kissed him.

Gently, falling first to my elbows in the snow and then lower still to lay my upper body against his. Then my lips, warm from the exertion, found his ice cold from the hit to the face. The mingling of the ice around us, inside us, with the warmth of his body against mine was too heady. Too novel. So I pressed in closer, dragging my lips against his as he fisted the hand on my cheek into the hair of my head. Jon, even from below me, took charge, moving his lips against mine in such an expert way that it made me hunger. It made me hunger, deep in the pit of my stomach. I had kissed before, but never like this.

But even Jon's musky smell and the heat and the pull between us couldn't stop the thoughts that came unbidden into my head. I was in the Godswood of Winterfell, kissing the King of Westeros. Right after an assassination attempt on his sister.

I pulled back, but Jon followed, whispering, pleading, "No."

"We shouldn't... not here-"

Jon sat up as I did, his arms wrapped tight around me and half of his monstrous cloak keeping out the cold. Our lips met again, more urgent this time, his lips slanting and drawing mine in with a gentle suck. I gasped and moaned as his tongue slid inside, wet and slick against my own. Jon held me against him, one arm around my upper back and the other like a vice against the back of my hips. I felt as if aflame, his fire consuming me and blasting away the cold. I couldn't move away, and the Gods forgive me but... I didn't want to.

"Jon," I whispered when I pulled back for air. He drew me back in, and like a moth to the flame, I followed willingly. By the Gods, I followed willingly, moaning like a wanton whore, "Jon."

"Synne," Jon rested his forehead against mine who knows how long later. Our breaths mingled, heavy and thick with mist but still warm. Beneath his cloak, in each other's arms, not even the cold of the Godswood could penetrate, "The Gods as my witness, I have wanted to do that for months."

"I... Jon, I..." My throat was dry, sticking and jumbling about my words, "I-I'm afraid."

The arm on my upper back left so the back of his hand could caress my cheek, "Of what?"

"You," I answered truthfully, shamelessly leaning into his touch, "You're everything I'm not. Noble, handsome, powerful."

"You are all those things, even if you won't take Tyrion's name."

"My mother loved him," I ran a hand through his mop of dark curls, melting flecks of white with my half frozen hands, "She loved him so much. And that love destroyed her." I looked away, out into the expanse of white that was the Godswood, eyes downcast, "... I don't want to be destroyed, too."

His grip tightened on me. I could feel how his hands trembled, "Synne." As if his words were the call of a siren, I looked back into his beautiful eyes, "I'm afraid too."

I blinked. Jon never seemed scared of anything. The closest to panic that I remember from him was with Sansa, just earlier. Yet my mind prickled, trying to remember sometime else... "Why?"

"I loved two others," He kept my gaze locked, even though I could tell he wanted to look anywhere else. Jon needed me to understand, "Both died because of me. One, by the 'and of the Night's Watch and the other... by my own."

I nearly said her name, breathless. Daenerys Targaryen and another. I didn't know. I knew she died, and that it was believed by some to be the catalyst of victory over the Night King. I wanted to ask, I  _needed_  to ask. But I couldn't. Not with Jon looking so anguished. Like even thinking of either of his dead loves drove a sword through his heart.

So I showed him mine. I took Jon's hand and weaved it under my layers to touch the skin of my collarbone, just above my heart, "Jon, feel this. Feel my heart. I am here, and even if there is a world between us, as long as you want me near you, I'll always come back." My shoulders sagged and tears prickled at my eyes, "I can't do it anymore. I can't get you out of my head." My heart beat so loud and hard in my chest. He had to feel it, "You're always there. And even though everything my mother taught me screams for me to run away and hide from you, from powerful men  _like_  you... Gods as my witness, I can't."

"You're warm," Jon said, voice paced with a strange reverie. His fingers moved over my heart, dancing up my collarbone as my breath caught and stopping, having slipped out of my clothes, on the side of my neck, "You're always so... warm."

Jon kissed me then. And the fire of him grew hotter, even as my fingers were still number from the cold. He was a dragon in more than name; his flame burning brighter and hotter than anything despite the cold. As he pulled me closer, so tight it stole my breath, I found that it wasn't enough. I needed him, more of him, more of the man that was once called Snow.

After an age in fire, Jon drew back. It was my turn to follow, leaning into him. But Jon deftly moved me so my head tucked underneath his chin and his massive fur cloak wrapped around us. I felt his breath misting over the top of my head, "By the Gods. I-I need to stop."

My heart plummeted and I moved back, hissing as the cloak slipped away and the cold wind nipped at me, "Stop? Why?"

"Not here, not yet," Jon's brow furrowed, and suddenly it was like he wasn't there. His mind was moving so fast, thoughts somewhere in the future, "Good God's I want to but... this time... I do it right."

"Jon, what're you talking about?" My heart climbed out of the pit of my stomach. Not a rejection, then.

He smiled, good and pure, before lifting a hand to run through my hair, "It's different for nobles. Reputation, rank... speaking to your father."

My mouth dropped wide open, "Tyrion? What does he have to-?" Then it hit me. From some of my etiquette classes at King's Landing I learned that nobles usually needed the consent of the father before courting anyone, say nothing of marriage. Of course, that and obviously broken constantly - my existence was proof of that - but Jon wanted everything done by the book.

But did I? "You mean... a courtship?" I climbed out of Jon's lap so we both could stand. I shivered and my teeth clattered from going from something so warm to something so cold, "You never did that before?"

Jon unclasped his cloak and draped it over my shoulders. When I protested, he said, "I was raised 'ere and lived years at the even colder Wall. You are from Dorne. At least take it until we go inside."

"... Okay."

"And no," Jon steered me by our clasped hands back through the Godswood into the castle, "Not a... proper courtship, either time."

I could see it in the creases of his face and his frown how much the memories pained him. These women who came before had left scars on Jon and a haunted look behind his eyes.

"So... a paramour?" The thought made me feel this traitorous sense of glee in my stomach and I broke out in a grin. Paramours weren't a thing outside Dorne, as far as I knew, but the thought of being known as the love of the King...

Good Gods, what would my mother think if she was still alive?

"Paramour?"

"Mother never liked the practice, but I always thought that was because she grew up outside Dorne," I shrugged as we left the cold outside for the cold stone inside, "But I always thought that it was rather honest." Seeing his confusion, I realized that Jon really didn't know what a Paramour was, or at least didn't know enough, "It's a Dornish thing. When a Lord or Lady falls in love, but cannot marry that person for whatever reason - social standing, already married, et cetera - they take that person as their Paramour. It's like a mistress, but usually open and acknowledged. Some are even wives in all but name."

When Jon stopped abruptly, my hand was almost ripped out of his, "You think I want you as my... as my  _mistress_?"

He looked disgusted at the thought, but I couldn't understand why. It was a normal thing in Dorne, and though I knew they preferred to sneak around and conspire about love and infidelity outside of Dorne, I didn't expect it to be met with such... disgust.

"I mean, I assumed-"

He gripped my hand like a vice, "I would  _never_  disrespect you like that."

"Disrespect?" My mouth gaped, but I snapped it shut quickly, "Jon, where I come from everyone is more honest about these things. I am a bastard, you are the King of Westeros. Even though my father is Hand of the King, you are still miles above me in social standing-" It dawned on me. My hand slipped from his as I took a step back, "Wait. You... you mean to court me... for  _marriage_?" To be... Queen of Westeros? I, bastard of House Lannister?

Jon's brow furrowed, "Of course I do."

My blood ran cold as my brain sped faster, "But... no one would accept that. A bastard for their Queen? Not even in Dorne could a ruling house be headed by a bastard, much less a noble married to one."

"You're a lot more than just a bastard, Synne."

"Maybe not to you or Father or Missandei or even your sisters," I ran a hand through my hair. A lump grew in my throat. Jon had made me imagine the impossible, damn him! "We peasants may have a bit more freedom choosing spouses than nobles, but at least I still know that love factors little into it."

"I would prefer you to some simpering noble girl."

My head snapped up, "Is your sister simpering? Is Arya? There's probably hundreds of trueborn noble girls much better suited to being Queen than me."

Jon scoffed, "The ones I've met, with few exceptions, 'ave been all flattery. They want the crown and nothing else. You-" He stepped towards me. I stumbled back, "-'ave challenged me. Talked to me as an equal. Surprised me. And didn't you say that the ones who don't want a powerful role are the ones best suited to it?"

"Jon, I am a  _bastard_."

"Aye, as I was once," Jon said, "And even before my birth parents were known, the people of the North were willing to crown me King. Before even Sansa, who is the eldest Stark. Birth means much, but never as much as we assume."

"You... You just don't get it!" I wanted to scream at him. Shout with all the strength of the little girl inside me, "I am not a Queen. I'm not a proper lady. I can't sew like Sansa, or defend myself like Arya. Even in the Red Keep, I see how people whisper about me. I'm a bastard, and that might mean little in Dorne and not as much here, but that means a lot in King's Landing."

"I know you think-"

"You know nothing, Jon," I shook my head. His eyes widened and shoulders slumped, as if the words affected him somehow, "If you thought I would jump for joy when you mentioned courting me officially, you know nothing. It  _scares_  me, Jon." I leaped forward and snatched his hand. Thrusting it against my bosom, I held it there so he could feel how my heart was racing.

And I was scared. The mere thought of having that much power, and all the knives at my back that meant, frightened me, "I didn't go to King's Landing to charm myself a husband. I went to know my Father. And I found many friends, and..." I bit my lip and dropped his hand, looking away out a window as a raven cried in the distance, "I guess you could say I found love there too."

"Synne-"

"Let's say we courted. No, let's say we found a septon drunk enough to bless a marriage between the King and a low-raised bastard," I crossed my arms, shoulders hunched and still looking away from him, "There would be talk, scheme's, maybe even attempts on both our lives. Sansa is targeted for daring to lead the North as a woman. How much better would a bastard Queen fair?"

"You seemed fine with being my... my  _mistress_ ," Jon spat the word, "But not my Queen. You would be the most heavily protected woman in Westeros. No one would harm you or dare say a word."

"You can't stop people from talking and plotting," I said, "My father couldn't protect my mother. She died with only me beside her, after a life of hard labor, forced prostitution, beatings and rape. All because she dared to love and hope above her station." I took his hand in mine and squeezed, staring at our entwined fingers, "I said I would always come back to you, stay by your side, and I will. But please... don't make me into something I'm not, and let it destroy us both."

"I 'ave seen the trust and noblest of men come from the humblest beginnings, and monsters among Queens and Kings," Jon brought my hand up to his lips and kissed the knuckle, smiling though his expression looked strained, "You're better than you realize, and with less to fear, Synne Sand."

"No, no, I'm really not," It took me an embarrassingly long time to tear my eyes from his warm stare, "I am just a bastard who is good with animals."

"You treated me as anyone else from the day I found you with Ghost in the Godswood," Jon said, "As if I wasn't the King, but just some random person who insulted you."

It seemed like so long ago now, that night in the Godswood. I barely remembered that he'd insulted me at all, though in hindsight the comment seemed much more a slight against himself than me, "So?"

"When Drogon attacked the feeder and injured you, I felt like back when I watched Ygritte die in my arms," Jon looked down the hall both ways before yanking me towards him by the hand. Ygritte? "I tried to keep my distance because I would not go through that again. But... what were your words? Gods as my witness, I can't."

"Jon... don't, please," His hands were so warm, like a hearth fire. Warm and... inviting. I pulled away, eyes downcast, "Please, don't make me something I'm not."

I ran from the King then. He called after me, but I dashed through the halls of Winterfell and away from all the confusion. The conflicting emotions deep in my chest; the happiness of our shared feelings, the warmth of Jon's kiss... fear as the proposition he'd laid at my feet. Not of marriage, not yet, but of the future assumption of one.

How could he want me like that? I had nothing to offer him, except a closer tie to House Lannister through technicality. It's not as if I was even a Lannister, not truly. All the money, all the things I had that weren't in that little chest back in the Tower at the Red Keep, were my father's. There was no possible benefit in taking me as a wife. None whatsoever, yet the look on his face... Jon hadn't cared.

I stopped outside the door to my room, eyes blown wide. Unless I had missed something else? "No," I shook my head and went inside, Florys leaping off the bed immediately to greet me. There was nothing else. Nothing to tempt a man like him for anything other than the role of Paramour. Which I was... fine with. Mother would be furious, even now I could hear her screaming in my head to be careful. To not feel for a man like Jon Targaryen, so strong and so powerful and at the likely cross-hairs of every plot of political intrigue in the country.

I was a coward. A yellow-bellied coward. I curled up underneath my sheets and balled my fists in the fabric. I would have to convince him - and likely my Father too - that I wasn't fit to be Queen. I didn't want to be Queen. I didn't want to be in those cross-hairs, I didn't want to be that target. I didn't want to end up like my mother.

But even then, that night, my traitorous mind would only dream of dragons and thrones.

* * *

I didn't leave my room until Bridget came and readied me for supper. Florys trailed close at my side all the way to the dining hall, and I didn't have the heart to stop the fox. In the large dining hall - smaller than the great hall, for more intimate meals than the arrival banquet - everyone was already seated. At the head, Sansa and Jon, with the Kingsguard and my father down one end of the table and Bran with the rest of the Northerners down the other. There was only one spot empty in the all the table, and I hesitated. It was at the corner next to Jon, where Tyrion usually sat. My father was sitting one more seat down.

Tyrion eyed me and smiled before patting the seat. For a moment, I loathed the man, "Synne, sit. I thought you wouldn't join us tonight."

I nodded and forced a smile. When I sat, Florys curled up under my skirts. Tyrion eyed the fox - silent, quite well hidden - but didn't say anything. I couldn't look at Jon, though I felt his eyes boring into me.

So I stared passed him at his sister, "Lady Stark, are you feeling better? I'm... sorry I didn't come back after checking on His Majesty and speaking with my Father. I was um... pretty tired after all the exci- I mean, after everything." Calling an attempted assassination attempt 'excitement' seemed rather rude.

Sansa didn't answer right away. Her chin was turned up a bit, and tilted, regarding me with a peculiar expression. Her eyes flashed - quick, almost invisibly - to Jon. I felt cold. She knows. Of course she knew. What did she think of me? What did Jon tell her? Did she think me a harlot? A young upstart bastard, reaching above her station? Or was she on Jon's side - and Tyrion's too, if the seating was any indication - about this idea of courtship?

At length, she spoke, "Yes, I believe I do."

When she picked up her soup spoon, Bridget stepped up, "My lady, shouldn't I...?"

Sansa froze and stared at her bowl for a moment before sighing. She gave the serving girl room and Bridget leaned down to take the first sip. The rest of the table watched in awkward silence as nothing happened.

"This is ridiculous," Sansa muttered, half under her breath. She shooed Bridget away before digging into her supper.

"It's necessary," Tyrion said.

"Yes, yes," Sansa, somehow, managed to make annoyed eating look graceful, "Let's talk of something else. There's not much sense in talking in circles until we know more." Her gaze - fierce, if not a bit annoyed - snapped right to Sam, who flinched, "Have you more news from the Wall?"

"Y-yes, a letter this morning milady," Sam swallowed his food thickly, "I think- well, I'm sure really, that I know Brandon the Builder's particular construction methods now."

"And?"

"I sent for more measurements and samples, but... I'm sorry, my lady," Sam's expression morphed. He looked sad, forlorn almost, as his gaze turned to Jon, "I'm sorry, Jon. Without giants, it could take centuries to repair the wall. And even with the... help of those priestesses from Essos, we can't replace the magic. The Breach isn't going anywhere."

Next to me Jon clutched his fork tighter, knuckles whiter than the snow outside. Even though he whispered, I was sure the table heard it, "Centuries...?"

"There's nothing?" I couldn't look Jon in the face, but his voice sounded so strangely empty, "I mean, Brandon the Builder made the whole thing in his lifetime, and that was thousands of years ago."

"But he had the help of the giants and the Children of the Forest," Sam shook his head, "We don't."

"There has to be a..." I bit my lip when I saw Tyrion's look. This wasn't a conversation for me.

"We don't know that there is anything else beyond the wall looking to return. And we have to prepare for even harsher weather; winter  _has_  only just begun," Sansa turned back to her food, "The wall will be funded with what we can spare, but it won't be much for some time."

"Sansa-!"

"We have just had multiple wars and the people are tired," Sansa said, "Winter is here, it is colder than ever, and if we are not careful both food supplies and funds will run out. I am sparing what I can, but with the Wildlings largely  _south_  of the wall and the Night King dead, I fail to see the point in focusing on the Wall above our people."

Jon didn't have anything to say to that, and merely turned back to his food with a sigh. I could see what this meant to him, and for the first time the whole meal, our eyes met. His were stormy, a darker blue than I'd in a while. The way he looked at me had my face flushing red, and I had to break the contact.

At least half the table was looking at us, but no one said a word. I kept my eyes on my plate for the rest of the meal as the others talked of things far over my head. More work on the Wall, how to ration food if it got colder, methods of even using the glass gardens as farm land, or diverting the hotsprings even more in order to make some sort of indoor land fertile enough to farm. With the snow as thick as it was in Winterfell, I could only guess how bad it was even further North. There was talk of organized hunting parties, increasing mining so the fruits of that could be traded down South, were land was still able to be farmed. There was even talk of Dorne, where the snap of winter would hit the least, and trading food for metal and stones.

"After the war, there's been a push by some of the nobles to get their hands on dragonglass; some for weaponry, most for simple ornamentation. Even the Dothraki and the emissaries from Essos have shown interest," said Tyrion, "I suggest it be sold to those who wish to purchase. We have a surplus out of Dragonstone, and there is little point in creating even more weapons from the stuff."

"Little point?" Davos stared at my father, incredulity written all over his face, "There are still reports of straggler White Walkers north of the Wall, and wights in the forests between here and the Land of Always Winter."

"Dragonglass has no effect against wights, and we have more than enough already to take care of any White Walkers they come across at the Wall or beyond."

"How can you know that?"

"Simple," Tyrion smirked behind his goblet, "Bran told me."

All eyes were on the teen. He didn't seem fazed, and nodded with his eyes closed, "There are White Walkers still remaining, true, but there is many times more dragonglass in the world than would ever be needed to destroy them."

"You sound quite sure of that, Bran," Sansa said evenly.

"I am."

"You have been wrong before."

"There are infinite possible futures in the world," Bran opened his eyes, uncaring for Sansa's probing, "Yet there are none in which there is a lack of dragonglass for tackling remaining White Walkers."

Sansa shot up, glaring, "Forgive me if I don't trust you after this morning, Bran."

She swerved with wrathful grace and stomped from the room. Guards trailed after her, including two of the Kingsguard. Everyone stared after her, and I was shocked. She looked so angry and hurt. At this morning, at Bran, at a great many things that I wasn't sure I would ever know.

Tyrion spoke first, "Well, that went well."

"You shouldn't push my sister," Jon said, turning back to his food with a furrowed brow.

"My suggestion is a valid one, Jon," My father said pointedly.

Jon sighed and, after a long pause, said, "... I know."

The rest of dinner was a quite affair. I could feel Jon's eyes on me quite often, when someone wasn't trying to talk to him themselves. But I didn't look back in his direction, and soon asked to be dismissed, hoping to get back to my room and just... think. I didn't need these confusing feelings. And I didn't need the uncomfortable warmness the constant gaze of the King of Westeros had been causing in me all morning.

The feeling of his lips on mine. His fingers, wound and twisted in my hair. The cold rapidly melting around us as he pulled me closer-"

"Synne."

Tyrion caught up with me halfway down the hall. He had that look on his face. I'd seen it all the time since he found me at the tiny farm outside Dorne. The pointed, fatherly look that clearly said he knew  _exactly_  what was wrong, regardless of whether it was true or not. Tyrion gestured me down another hall, towards his quarters that were closer to the King's.

"We're going to have a talk, daughter."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  DUN DUN DUUUUNNNNNN xD

 


	10. Beneath the Stones of Winterfell

**Disclaimer:** I want the final season so I know how much this story is fucked xD

* * *

Chapter Nine

**Beneath the Stones of Winterfell**

_"Every day is a new day, and you'll never be able to find happiness if you don't move on."_

_\- Carrie Underwood_

* * *

No amount of deflection or excuses could dissuade Tyrion, so I soon found myself fidgeting on the lavish guest bed of my father's chambers. Tyrion shot me glances as he slowly and laboriously poured himself another glass of wine. He hadn't said a word since we'd entered the room. But I knew his look; he knew. Of course he knew; he was the Hand of the King, after all. The slower he went, the more uncomfortable I became. So I fidgeted more. First on the bed, then I paced the room, then looked out the window, then-

"Oh calm down, Synne, you aren't in trouble," Tyrion said dryly, taking a sip of his wine before sitting in one of the armchairs surrounding a low table on the other end of the room. He inclined his head at another chair, "Now sit down."

I shot him a look, then sighed and sat down. Tyrion handed me a glass of wine and watched me over his own until I was halfway through the sip before saying, "So... kissed the king, did you?"

I spat wine all over the table, "W-wh-wha-?!"

"Don't give me that look, daughter," Tyrion took a long, drawn out sip, looking entirely nonplussed, "Arya saw you two leave the Godswood looking all kinds of close. It wasn't hard to guess, and from your face... I'd say my assumption was right."

Arya saw us? She'd been with Sansa when I'd left the sitting room... how long were Jon and I in the Godswood? How hadn't either of us seen her?

"Arya is very good as sneaking around," Tyrion drawled, swirling his wine glass a bit, "She told her sister, of course. Who confronted Jon and told me." His beady eyes looked pointedly at me over the rim of his glass as he took a sip before setting it down, "Do you know what else Jon told me, Synne?"

I winced.

"That you ran away from him when he expressed desire to properly court you with the intent to wed. That you assumed - or, from his telling,  _preferred_  - to be a... what is it the Dornish call it...?"

"A paramour."

Tyrion clicked his tongue, "Right. That." The glass back in his hands and a long drink later - when had my palms begun to sweat? - he added, "Jon seems to think you're afraid of the repercussions of a bastard possibly becoming Queen of Westeros." I winced. He smiled, "Smart girl. You're definitely my daughter."

I blinked stupidly, "Huh?"

"You're absolutely right to be weary after... what happened to Tysha," A shadow so brief that I almost missed it cast over his eyes, "Dealing with nobility in Westeros is like a game of chess. One where the wrong move gets those close to you hurt, and the right one still ends in someone dying. And no matter what move you make, someone innocent can bear the brunt of the consequences."

My shoulders sagged. I suppose I should have felt glad that Tyrion agreed with me, but a strange tightness formed in my chest. He was right, just like I was when trying to explain it to Jon. It was too dangerous, not just for us, especially in light of the attempt on Sansa's life.

"However," Tyrion swirled his glass again before taking a long drink. His eyes narrowed just a bit, not suspicious but somehow knowing, "Sometimes you need to take a dangerous gamble, Synne."

"F-father!" Was it possible to be disappointed and relieved at the same time? I refused to acknowledge the relief. I couldn't be relieved. So I focused on the other emotions, "It's... it's dangerous! He could get hurt, assassinated like the attempt on Sansa's life. All the work he's done to get people to accept him... anything with us would only hurt that! And-and he told me how much it hurt losing two loves already. If something happened to me, if someone tried to kill me because of his attachment, how would Jon end up? A third love lost. It's... the risk is too great, I don't want to hurt him!"

"And you fail to see all the benefits from the match, Synne," Tyrion set his glass down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, "Of course, there is the obvious that you both are in love with each other - don't look at me so astonished, girl, it  _is_  obvious - but there are other reasons that outweigh both that  _and_ your fears."

I scoffed, "Doubt it."

"Never change that non-noble talk back nature of yours, Synne. It will get you places," I honestly couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Probably both, in his unique double-speak Tyrion way, "Consider this; After Robert's Rebellion, House Baratheon ruled Westeros. King Robert married my sister Cersei, bringing House Lannister into the royal family. By the time Robert died, all of Westeros sans a scant few remaining loyalists were on the side of the Baratheons and Lannisters. However now?" He smirked, a darkness in the back of his eyes at some far memory, "The entirety of House Baratheon is gone sans one or two bastards that escaped the purging my monstrous nephew did. All three of my sister's children - heirs despite not having a drop of Baratheon blood because of her incest with Jaime - are long dead. Cersei herself is dead. Jon is the last surviving blood member of House Targaryen, the royal house from before the Rebellion. I am the last Lannister, technically the last of the royal family from  _after_  the Rebellion, sans one. That one being  _you_."

"I am not a Lannister, I'm-"

"A bastard of a Lannister," Tyrion said, "But Lannister blood runs through your veins no matter what you have to say about titles. Jon is the last child of House Targaryen. You are the last child of House Lannister. Many people want a return to Baratheon and Lannister rule. Others prefer the Targaryens." He grinned, "Would you believe that last year, just before I found you, there was an ill planned attempt to oust Jon and install me as King?  _Me_ , of all people?" He laughed, a deep one from the belly, "Only lasted an hour after Varys discovered the plot, another hour before all involved were jailed or executed."

I paled despite his mirth, "Was Jon-?!"

"Oh he didn't even find out for another month," Tyrion waved a dismissive hand, "He had much more important matters at the time. The point is, while most of the country is content with Jon as King or simply doesn't care, there are still camps that want a Baratheon - not happening due to extinction - or a Lannister - myself - on the throne. What better way to placate the post Rebellion loyalist than to unite both the Targaryen and the Lannister households through their last surviving children?"

He made sense, damn him. I clenched and unclenched my fists a good half dozen times, trying to think of some smart response and coming up with nothing until I remembered my trump card against Tyrion's logic, "I don't want to end up like mother."

Tyrion froze for a moment. His face fell, eyes downcast as he drew into himself for a moment. I didn't breathe, a fear creeping up my neck at the thought that I'd gone too far. I knew bringing up my mother and what Tyrion's father did to her - to them both, really - was a sore spot, but it was my last line of defense. Mother and the things she taught me about the world were my greatest strength, after all.

At length, he spoke again, the words said slowly and with a piercing gaze I couldn't look away from, "You and Jon will never have to worry about what happened between Tysha and I happening to either of you."

I looked away, ashamed, because he was right. I'd known that before I'd even said the words. This whole talk proved that there would be no disapproving parent tearing the match apart. Most people around him either liked me or were neutral... with the possible exceptions of Arya and Varys, who it was impossible to tell with. But neither would go against Jon, especially Arya who loved her brother-cousin. But even as logic threatened to overtake my better judgement, the fear returned. Hoping above one's station was dangerous, whatever Tyrion had to say to the contrary.

"Father, even though I'm your daughter, that still doesn't change the fact that I am a bastard and was raised low in brothels and farms!" I shot up, emotions bubbling up within my warring psyche, "I-I'm not a lady, I never was! Sure, I can read decently enough now and can embroider poorly and understand maps and know history, but I'm not made of the right stuff to be a Queen!"

"And what would the right stuff be?" Tyrion smirked, "I have known two very well in my life, and they were the furthest apart in attitude and ideals as, say, Varys and a Dothraki."

"Father-!"

"Enough," Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose before pointing at my seat again, "Sit back down and listen, Synne, and listen well." The seriousness of his tone had my rear in that chair before I'd even thought to object. He sighed, "Since your mother instilled these... fears... in you so resolutely, whether she meant to or not, and you fail to see reason or the logic in my counsel, I am forced to tell you something only a small handful in all the world know. To explain something of Jon's character."

My eyes widened a bit. Something about Jon? I couldn't deny that a surge of thrill shot through me at the thought, "But... if it's about Jon, shouldn't he tell me if he wishes?"

"We've discussed you more than once, believe me," Some mirth returned to his beady eyes, "I wouldn't tell you this if he hadn't allowed it. But if you won't take to logic, then I am simply forced to leverage your feelings for the King and your penchant towards helping people."

I blanched. At least he was honest about it.

Tyrion jabbed a stubby finger at his chest, right where his heart was, "Jon has had a hard life. He was raised as a bastard to hide his true parentage. He lived for years in the harshest environment in all the word. He watched his men under his command kill his first love. To save us all from the Night King, he killed Daenerys, the aunt he fell for before either of them knew of their relation. And here, underneath all that leather and fur he always wears, is a big scar amongst dozens of others. From where a dozen blades went through him, and one straight through the heart, killing him in the process."

All blood drained from my face. I felt light headed, shocked, disbelieving, "That's-"

"Impossible, I know, but everyone thought dragons were extinct and magic long gone too, and look where that's gotten us," Tyrion shrugged, "But it's true. Jon died, true as any corpse, and was dead for a good while from what I hear. Long enough that all parties involved were sure of the fact, at least. That is, before a Red Priestess wove her magic, or the Gods showed favor, or any number of miracles from any pantheon or belief system take your pick, brought him back from the dead.  _Literally_  back from the dead."

A long silence stretched on. My mouth was dry and I grasped for my own wine, taking a deep, long drink. Another silence passed before I blurted out, "What does this have to do with... with..." It was hard to say 'Jon and I'. Even harder to admit my feelings, at least out loud.

"Well, daughter, your pigheadedness won't listen to the political benefits or my rebuttals to your fears, so..." Tyrion took up his own glass, once more watching me from over the rim, "The fact of the matter is that Jon Targaryen is in love with you. A man who has gone through so much in a short life, who has felt betrayal to the point he literally died for it, who has watched everything crumble around him multiple times, wants  _you_ , daughter. Not arranged, not forced, just because you happened to worm your way through that tough exterior of his. He has smiled more since you came to the Red Keep. Put in more effort, tried more. And when you nearly lost your life to Drogon saving that idiotic handler, the way Jon's face looked reminded me so much of him and Daenerys that I thought for a split moment I was seeing them again. Your steadfast refusal to acknowledge what you  _both_  want is hurting not only you, but is hurting him." He finished his glass and set it back down, "I don't even have to ask if you like causing Jon pain, after everything he's gone through. I know you don't. The question is, how much pain are you willing to cause him if you have the ability to cause him happiness in greater measure?"

And like that, I was well and truly cornered. I could think of nothing to say or do that would refute Tyrion. I was still afraid - who wouldn't be? - but causing Jon any pain... the thought made me feel ill. Sick to my stomach, even. I covered my mouth and sobbed once, the mental image of everything Tyrion told me about Jon flashing before my eyes like a morbid art gallery.

Tyrion slid out of his chair and rested a hand on my knee, "It's late; let me walk you back. At least think on it, Synne."

All I could do in reply was nod.

* * *

A courier arrived early in the morning, a slightly damp letter clutched in his hand. He was from the Wall, and was ushered into the main dining hall halfway through breakfast. Jon took the letter, all eyes watching his every move as those dark eyes scanned the page.

"What word?" Sansa said, face as tense as the rest of us felt.

"Repairs are going well," He looked up with the ghost of a smile, "They are ahead of schedule with the help of the wildlings. The top of the wall near the breach is safe to walk on again."

I didn't know why that in particular was important, but some of the constant tiredness on his face melted away. It made me smile myself, softly, as he continued, "I must see it."

"Really, Jon?" Sansa said, "I don't think-"

"I  _have_  to see it, Sansa. It's been well over two years."

The siblings stared each other down, Sansa's cold eyes boring into her brother's own equally icy ones. At length, she sighed, shaking her head and tone disapproving but resigned, "I'll arrange hardier transport by tomorrow, Your Majesty." From the subtle wince on Jon's face, I got the hint that Sansa only used his title when she was angry with him. Over what exactly, I didn't know. If the restoration was so important to Jon, why shouldn't he see the progress?

Jon looked up at me and I diverted my eyes quickly. After Tyrion's talk last night, my thoughts were all in a jumble where the King was involved.

"The party will be myself and Davos," He leaned back a bit in his chair, "... along with half the Kingsguard. I'd bring you too, Tyrion..." I could hear his smile, "... but  
I know how much you hate the cold."

There was a bit of an air of confusion in the room. I didn't realize why until Sansa said with a raised eyebrow, "Leaving behind a full  _half_  the Kingsguard, brother? Is that really necessary?"

"For protecting you and Synne, yes," Jon said, facing looking grim for a moment. I felt heat rise to my cheeks. He was including me in the same group with his sister. Something he wanted to protect. He hadn't mentioned Arya, but that was probably because the youngest Stark could obviously take care of herself.

"Well, I'm glad to stay in Winterfell, Your Majesty," Tyrion made a half-grunting sound, "The cold here is far enough for my-"

"Can I come?"

The table went silent when I blurted that out. Now my face felt on fire with all the eyes on me. I hadn't really  _meant_  to cut off my own father, but it just came out! "I-I mean. I would like to see it too; the Wall, that is."

Tyrion leaned towards me a bit in a sort of psuedo-whisper, "Women aren't usually allowed on the Wall."

"That policy ended with the integration of the Wildlings," Sam said. He'd barely said anything all meal; I'd forgotten he was there, "I-I mean, well... mostly. They don't stay on the Wall itself, but in the villages, and there  _is_  space for visiting girls."

"Your wife and boy, they live in the villages by the Wall, don't they?" Tyrion asked.

Sam nodded, "Sometimes, yeah. I'm technically the Maester of the Night's Watch, but I've also been charged with Winterfell until a new Maester is sent to replace Wolkan. So sometimes Gilly and Sam stay behind with the Wildlings, sometimes they come with me, like now." He looked at his pretty wife to his right and the adorable boy on the left. either spoke much, but happiness exuded from both. I was... jealous, somehow.

"I see."

"She can come if she wants," My gaze snapped to Jon, then away immediately when I saw him looking right at me. I hadn't expected him to actually agree, "I defer to your counsel on that, Tyrion."

My father shrugged, "It will be good for her to see. You'll get no objection from me."

I caught the double meaning in his words.

"Hardly a place fit for a noble woman, brother," Despite her words, there was no real objection in Sansa's tone.

Tyrion answered with a biting tongue, "As my daughter is apt to remind everyone, she's no noble."

I didn't miss the hidden meaning there, either.

* * *

The thickest and hardiest of my clothing was packed that night by Bridget and a few attendants. She was going to take care of Florys while I was gone; Winterfell was already pushing it for the poor desert animal. The fox hardly left the hearth of my room's fireplace. We were leaving first thing in the morning, taking the one largest carriage and about half the men and horses. Tyrion, Jon, Davos, and I were to keep to the spacious and grand King's carriage - the one Jon hardly used himself on the way from King's Landing, preferring his horse. With how Tyrion described it, and with none of the attendants coming with, it was mostly for my benefit. I was the only woman going north with them to the Wall; even Arya was staying behind.

"You'll take care of her, right?" I looked up at Bridget as she latched my trunk shut. Florys was curled up in my lap by the fire.

"Of course, Lady Synne," she walked over and gave the fox a few pats. Florys had learned to accept her presence in the time we'd been at Winterfell, "Lady Sansa has expressed interest in your fox as well; she'd never seen one before. Florys will be well taken care of."

"Thank you," I said, earnest. Florys had been with me ever since the day Bronn showed up on the farm. We hadn't been separated even for a day since then. It was hard to imagine not being awoken by her jumping on my head, hungry for breakfast, "I'm a little worried-"

A slow knock at the door startled me enough that Florys jumped off my lap with a huff, leaping onto my bed and burrowing under the covers. Bridget raised an eyebrow and I just shrugged. Who would call on me at this hour, with the moon already high overhead?

When Bridget answered the door and immediately went into a low curtsy, dread filled me. And that dread worsened when she added, "Your Majesty!"

If only Drogon  _had_  bitten my head off back in King's Landing.

I jumped up, hands clenched behind me and eyes on the floor as the unmistakable sound of Jon's footsteps strode into my bedchamber, "Excuse me, Synne. I was hopin' you would come walk with me."

"It is very late, Your Majesty, and we have to be up early."

He stepped close enough that I could see his boots and heavy cloak, despite staring at my own feet, "Then we won't be gone long."

Backed into the corner like I was - especially in the presence of Bridget who would probably tell all of this to either Sansa or Tyrion or both as soon as she could - I sighed, "... yes, Your Majesty."

I took Jon's offered arm and let him steer me from the room. We walked in silence for a time, through corridors of Winterfell lit only by the moonlight and the occasional sconce. In spite of the cold and through his thick padded gambeson, I could feel his warmth. It was... unsettling.

At first, I though Jon was steering me towards the weirwood of Winterfell. But instead of turning towards there, he took another side corridor that ended in stairs leading down. The icy air abated the further down we went, in direct difference to what I expected. But I remembered some lessons from Samwell and Wolkan; underneath Winterfell was a vast network of natural hotsprings, the waters of which would be diverted to provide head to the castle. So the further down we went, the closer to the springs and the warmer the air.

The walls grew rougher, older, and both statues and dark stone sarcophagi lined the walls. I read their names as we passed, eyes slowly widening. Jon was taking me down into the catacombs of House Stark, where the bones of his family were buried.

"Jon-"

"Just wait."

And I did. Until he stopped in front of a statue of a tall, beautiful woman. Her hair was covered by a veil, shoulders arrayed with stony fur. A long dress that reminded me of the kind other ladies about the castle wore - less layers than Sansa, without a cloak - and the remains of a candle, mostly melted, sat in one open palm.

"My mother," Jon said, his face as blank and calm as his voice, "Lyanna Stark."

"Your... mother?"

He held my arm firmly, steering me onwards. Another statue, the only other one of a woman in this part of the crypts, "Catelyn Stark. Wife of the man I call father. Who treated me with contempt in the best of times until I left for the Wall."

"Jon-"

"There's more," The statue on a pedestal next to Catelyn Stark was of a man, looking about Jon's own age, with a handsome face and regal countenance. At his feet laid a colossal direwolf, "My 'alf-brother - excuse me, 'alf-cousin - Robb Stark. Murdered at the Red Wedding because he favored honor and pride and owning 'is own decisions rather than schemes."

The next was a statue of a small boy. Too young to be here, knowing that underneath the statue was likely his body. Around his legs was curled a smaller wolf, "Rickon Stark. 'e was just a boy when 'e died in my arms, shot through with an arrow from the man who raped and tortured Sansa, Ramsay Bolton."

Then he led me back down the line, to a statue next to his mother's of a man who looked every picture of a noble. The one who carved it made his face gentle, yet severe. It reminded me of Jon's own, in a way, "And my father in all but blood, Eddard Stark. Beheaded because 'e discovered the adultery and schemes of King's Landing and was betrayed for it."

"Is this... everyone in your family who died in the War of Five Kings?" I felt like I should whisper, surrounded by all these statues of the dead.

He closed his eyes for a moment, face still smooth and weirdly calm, "Depends on your definition of family. A lot of people died then. Still do sometimes; the attack on Sansa's proof enough of that."

Jon's grip slackened and I slipped my arm out, "Jon, is this what you wanted to show me?"

"Yes," Jon hesitated, "... no." I looked away when he turned to face me, unable to stand the full weight of his eyes again, "There's a lot of bodies that aren't 'ere. People I cared about who died and their bodies were thrown in pyres or unmarked graves. Only ones here with bodies are my mother's and Rickon's. Catelyn, Robb... my father, one of the women I love... there's nothing. I wanted you... just to see this. So you knew why I am the way I am. I've outlived so many, and it's... easier to imagine losing more than gaining anything."

The first hint of emotion broke through his calm facade. It was sadness, the kind that never leaves a person. The kind my mother had, etched into her face my whole life, "I-I think I get it."

"No, you don't," Jon reached up and undid the clasp of his long cloak. He rolled up the thick, hefty thing and placed it on the ground by his mother's statue. When he reached for the ties of his gambeson, I stepped back, "You don't listen to words, Synne. It's something I... admire in you. You don't take them at face value; but you do trust what you see, right?"

"Jon, what are you doing?" For a moment, the thought crossed my head that we were alone down here. Not even servants would dare come into the Stark crypts without express permission. I was a woman, untrained in defending herself, alone with a man much larger and stronger than I. But I threw the thought away with a shake of the head. Jon wasn't like that. He was an honorable sort, unlike my... grandfather.

Yet when Jon removed his cloak and reached for the hem of his tunic, I panicked, "Stop, Jon! I-I shouldn't see you like..."

But the words trailed off when I saw what lie beneath the fabric. The flesh of Jon's chest was as alabaster as the rest of him, and all finely tuned and strong from decades of training. Lean, muscular yet flexible. But if it was just the chest of a beautiful man, it wouldn't have effected me so much.

It was the scars.

His chest as littered with them. Deep lines, some white and some pinkish, some raised and some indented, marred the smooth flesh. But the lines weren't thin, like those from a slash. A few were, to be sure, but as Jon stared at me with those bottomless eyes, a sort of horror dawned on me. A good many of the marks were too thick and too deep. The kind someone only got from something going through flesh, not merely slicing it. And they were  _everywhere_.

"Oh... oh my-"

He was already putting the tunic back on, the cloak following as I sat there in dumb shock. Jon sighed, "Tyrion told you what happened to me. I told him you would understand better seeing it yourself. You don't put much stock in words."

So what Tyrion said earlier was true, "You were... killed."

"By my own brothers of the Night's Watch," He hadn't fastened his tunic all the way, and pulled down a portion to show one of the deeper scares, "This one was from my own steward. Some of them didn't agree with my bringing the Wildlings south of the wall. They led me away under false pretense and... ran me through with their blades."

I drew in a sharp breath. We were going to the place where Jon died. Tomorrow, "Your brothers?"

Jon stepped up, less than an inch from me, "I want you, Synne Sand." I stopped breathing, "For all the reasons I've already said and more. Good people are hard to find in this world. People I trust, and even fewer that I have ever..." He swallowed, thickly, raising one hand to place softly against my cheek, "Admired."

A knot twisted in my stomach. I wanted to lean into his touch. I wanted to so  _badly_ , "Jon, we can't-"

"We  _can_ ," Jon's other hand went to my other cheek, now cradling my face in his hands, "I am only asking you give it a chance."

I tore my eyes from his own, slipping my hand between his and my cheek. I held Jon's hand, examining each knuckle with my thumb. They were so much bigger than mine, even though both showed signs of work. I had small hands and thin fingers, but even I had callouses from farm work. Less obvious after all these months, but they were there.

"Well then," I raised his knuckles to my lips, laying the digits softly against them. I didn't move away for a long moment, dimly aware that Jon had stopped breathing. Then I met his eyes, lips still ghosting over his hand, with a small, shy smile, "Your hands are cold."

"They always are," Jon leaned down at the shoulder, resting his forehead against mine. His smile was more sure, almost... coy, "Will you warm them, my lady?"

"... We'll see, your Majesty."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** *cackles manically* You thought I'd give you a definitive yes or no, didn't you?! AHAHAHA!

** Review Replies: **

The11th: Not entirely true. Barth and Aemon imply that they don't have fixed sex, Anson thinks that's wrong and they do, and other Maesters and archmaesters believe that if a dragon lays eggs they are female, etc. So it's not confirmed if Dragons straight up switch sex in a single sex enviornment, but given that we've not seen any indication of this with the GoT three, then I'm taking it as the three we see in the show and books are male unless the show proves otherwise. The only dragon I could find that is referred to as both male and female was Caraxes.

The_World_in_Black_and_White: Oh do I have some surprises in store for you then :P

Ros330: Sorry it took so long xD

 


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